A Show Of Stockings

This photo dates from the 1930s and is by Gordon H. Coster.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Stockings And Shoe Fetish
• Hobo In Heels
• Sophia Loren Adjusting Her Stockings
• A Show On The Stairs
• Sexy Buttoned Stockings
• Legs and Stockings

Tender Fucking Moment

Don’t pay any mind to the dude in the background. Look at our lovers. He’s caressing her face, they’re gazing deep into each other’s eyes, she’s a little breathless, her mouth open anticipating a kiss…

It could be straight off the cover of your average semi-pornographic bodice-ripper romance. A proposal of marriage within twenty pages, a duel by the end of the chapter, eventually a wedding after necessary complications, happily ever after in due course.

Except, I cheated. I cropped creatively, and rotated the frame a little bit. Because what’s actually going on here is, she’s strapped down to a bondage table with her legs apart and he (it would seem) is taking ruthless advantage of her helpless situation:

Not that she minds. Indeed, I’d say they’re pretty into each other.

Her girlfriend / partner in crime is getting the same treatment in the background (on the floor!) from his buddy. The story is, the girls are druggies who got caught by a pair of rogue cops. Supposedly it’s all very exploitative and the ladies are being kidnapped and turned into “whores” for the bad evil corrupt cops, but everybody seems to having too much fun to remember the nominal humiliation/degradation agenda.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Before And After The Bondage Sex
• Sex And Submission
• Bondage Kissing
• Saturday Sex Picture: Hair-Pulling Sex
• Real People Sex

Leg Fetish For Breakfast

From this lingerie ad at Vintage Seduction.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• The Training Of O
• Foot Fetish Fishhooking?
• Whipped Cream For The Sole

On A Maid’s Leg

This is from “Wit Restored” by John Mennes, dating to 1658:

On a Maid’s Leg

Fair Betty used to tuck her coats up high,
That men her foot and leg might soon espy.
Thou hast a pretty leg, (saith one) fair Duck.
Yea, two, (saith she) or else I have ill luck.
They’re two indeed, they’re twins, I think, quoth he,
They are, and yet they are not, Sir, said she;
Their birth was both at once, I dare be sworn
And yet between them both a man was born.

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…

Shooting For Kink.com

Over at Catalina Loves I found the longest and most detailed description I’ve yet seen about what it’s like to shoot for Kink.com. Model Coco writes at length about what her first shoot (for their Fucking Machines site) was like, and makes it sound like a lot of fun indeed. These are just tiny excerpts from a much longer piece:

TC the director came down to introduce himself to me and told me to meet him upstairs when I was finished. After some inspiring words I went up stairs to make-up. Isis Love the girl that pretty much got me this gig, was there to give me a thumbs up and wish me good luck. This made me even MORE nervous. I tried to calm myself down. There was a girl was in the middle of getting her make-up done and so I sat in the little lunch/waiting room. TC came in and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any questions. I started eating as he explained what would happen. He asked what I was nervous about. I said “all of the people that are going to be in the room, the more, the more nerve-wrecking” He mentioned there would be 4-5 people in the room. That must have gotten a surprised look out of me and he said, “If at any time you want to stop then we will stop and go get a beer. No harm, no foul and we’ll still pay ya.” That was relaxing. Haha. While the make-up artist was doing the other girls face, she told me I should “freshen up” I looked at her perplexed and after about 2 seconds I realized she was talking about douching. I have only douched a couple times before so I wandered my way into the bathroom. MY GOD! There was soooo much girl stuff in that bathroom, from hair ties, to douches to self enema thingys and like 4 different kinds of baby wipes and deodorants and razors, shampoos and just EVERYTHING you could think of that girls would need. So I did my deed.

…

So I was fixed on my back with my legs over the arm of the couch and the Satisfyher on it’s side. I was feeling SO ready to come and SO worked at this point I was excited and nervous. After getting warmed up quickly I just layed there and let it fuck me and took it all in. It was pretty fucking rad. Since I come faster from clitoral stimulation we decided to pull the satisfyher out and let it hit me on the clit instead of being inside me. TC manned the controls and we let her fly at 1800stokes per minute. All hell broke loose. There was no man in the world that would have stopped me from my orgasm at that point. I was sweating and shaking and moaning and right when I was in the middle of my orgasm I BROKE THE MACHINE. It just BUSTED. I have no clue I wasn’t watching it all I know is I came then I looked down and realized it was broke. OOPS!

After that I was ready for another orgasm and I was running around all energized and excited because everyone was saying how sweet it was that I broke the machine with my vagina. I felt pretty cool after that like a rockstar.

…

He happily handed over the new magic wand. TC assumed his position manning the drill and I had the vibrator. I was loose and ready. It was INTENSE. I mean getting fucked and playing with my clit usually gets me off, but this was fucking ridiculous. Every muscle in my legs and arms started shivering and aching and screaming MORE MORE MORE. It was almost too much. I was definitely overwhelmed. It didn’t take too long after that to send me into a screaming orgasm. And when I say screaming, I mean SCREAMING. I think I cussed more then anything. “oh FUCK” seemed to be the favorite of the day. I got fucked into a jerking moaning completely earth shaking orgasm. You know the kind that make you wanna write it down because you don’t want to forget that moment EVER. Ya that. I even squirted. I got some on the directors face. I was watching his face as he was watching my pussy and the look of amazement when I squirted made me feel even better.

…

After I got my paycheck, I went to my car and sat there and screamed. Screamed from how fucking cool it is to orgasm for a living. Screamed from doing something I’d never thought I’d have the balls to do. Screamed from being utterly brutalized in front of people I just met. I screamed for nothing and for everything.

And that is all I have to say about that. Take it how you want to. I know how I took it. HARD FAST and WITH EVERYTHING I HAVE.

xo-

Coco.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Art Keeps Getting In My Porn
• Ginger Lynn In Bondage
• Kink With A Smile
• Transsexual Porn With San Francisco Values
• Two Smiles

Night Fighting

From Junkbuzzed comes this fun-to-read account of dealing with an angry woman:

The next thing I hear is the clomp-clomp-clomp of angry woman footfalls striding away from me in ragtag contempt. I think about how grand it is, the affected gait of a woman slighted, and subsequently wonder if this precise non-verbal declaration of high dudgeon is perhaps a gender-imperative — in that, possessing of wider hips and longer legs, women are better built for spontaneous stomping fits, whereas we men, with our thin-hipped deportment are better suited to sadly trudging about. I make a mental note to write about this later, as another “ASSHOLE” is hurled from the other room like a wonky Russian warhead sold on the cheap to a republic that just formed last Tuesday. And the last thing to flutter across my consciousness is how many of history’s great tyrants had sleep apnea…

I wake up the next morning in a sheet of caked-over flop-sweat, and am immediately grateful that I was the first to rise. I take this time to clean and dress my wounds, as well as prepare for the Serious Talking-To that was sure to come with her waking. Which it does. Fortunately this particular talking-to does not seem to involve any spear-like instruments with which to strike at me.

This is not to say that she wasn’t incalculably unhappy with me. She in fact is sitting across from me, eyes drawn into puffy, sleep-deprived slits; legs crossed tighter than American credit lines; and her lower lip, jutted out not in petulance but in permanent, irretrievable sigh.

So I do what any man does when he knows he is wrong and is fresh out of loopholes, stratagems, and smokescreens: I fall on my sword. And when I fall on my sword, I go all out — I really make a show out of it. Because if she’s that mad at you, simple apologies aren’t really enough; she deserves a little entertainment for her trouble. So I flop about, wail, and generally carry on like flaming dipshit. This seems to appease her somewhat.

It’s worth reading the whole thing; there’s even an insight on the importance of cunnilingus.

Vintage Sixty-Nine

I found this florid description of mutual oral sex in Sadopaideia, so called because most of the 1907 book involves whipping and spanking. (The subtitle is “Being the experiences of Cecil Prendergast, undergraduate of the University of Oxford, shewing how he was led through the pleasant paths of Masochism to the supreme joys of Sadism.”) But, for that sort of thing, you often need an initial seduction, and in this passage that’s going swimmingly:

I felt her right arm round my waist and her left hand began to unbutton my fly from the top. Before she had time to undo the last button John Thomas leapt forth ready and eager, but she slapped it and pushed it in again and undid the last button and fumbled for my balls and gently drew them out. I drew back a little from her and lifted her petticoat right up, disclosing the daintiest of black silk openwork stockings with pale green satin garters, and above them filmy lawn drawers with beautiful lace and insertion, through which the fair satin skin of her thighs gleamed most provokingly. At the top there appeared just between the opening of the drawers the most fascinating brown curls imaginable.

I feasted my eyes on this lovely sight, undoing my braces and slipping my trousers down. Her hand immediately left my balls and began to fondle my bottom, stroking and pinching the cheeks while she murmured, “You darling boy, oh, what a lovely bottom.”

I was eager to be in her, but the brown curls fascinated me so much that I could not resist the temptation to stoop down and kiss them. I was rather shy of doing this, as I had never done it before, and though I knew it was usual with tarts, I was not sure if it would be welcome here. Judge of my surprise, then, when I felt Mrs. Harcourt’s hand on my head gently pressing it down and heard her saying, “How did you guess I wanted that?”

She opened her legs wider, disclosing the most adorable pussy, with pouting lips just slightly opening and showing the bright coral inner lips, which seemed to ask for my kisses. I buried my head in the soft curls, and with eager tongue explored every part of her mossy grot. She squirmed and wriggled with pleasure, opening her legs quite wide and twisting them round me. I followed all her movements, backing away on my knees as she slipped off the chair, until at last, when she drenched my lips with love, she slipped on the hearth rug. Then, as I could scarcely reach her with my tongue in that position, and didn’t wish to lose a drop of the maddening juice, I disengaged my legs from hers and knelt down to one side so that my head could dive right between her legs. This naturally presented my naked bottom and thighs to her gaze.

“You rude naughty boy,” she said, smacking me gently, “to show me this bare bottom. I’m shocked at you.”

Her hands again fondled my balls and bottom, and I had all I could do to prevent John Thomas from showing conclusively what he had in store for her.

I had no intention of wasting good material, however, and was just about to change my position so that I could arrive at the desired summit of joy when I felt her trying to pull my right leg towards her. I let myself go and she eventually succeeded in lifting it right over, so that I was straddling right across her, and we were in the position I knew quite well from photographs, known as sixty-nine.

My heart beat high. Was it possible I was to experience this supreme pleasure of which I had heard so much? I buried my head between her thighs, my tongue redoubled its efforts, searching out every corner and nook it could find, and just as it was rewarded by another flow of warm life I felt round my own weapon, not the fondling of her hand, but something softer, more clinging, and then unmistakably the tip of a velvet tongue from the top right down to the balls and back again, and then I felt the lips close round it and the gentle nip of teeth. This was too much, John Thomas could restrain himself no longer, and as I seized her bottom with both hands and sucked the whole of her pussy into my mouth, he spurted forth with convulsive jerks his hidden treasure. When the spasm was over I collapsed limply on her, my lips still straining her life.

Link via Spanking Blog.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Cupid Gets A Spanking

Sarah Palin Nude? Sorry, Not Yet.

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.

Enjoying Her Spanking

If you haven’t had your spankings lately, you might vicariously enjoy this very sexy account of a spanking. Excerpt:

I felt the hard plastic of my flat paddle brush against the crease of my ass and thighs, wide enough to get plenty of thud on both parts of my body. He’d occasionally stop and drag the bristles across my sore, red bottom; or use it on my pussy, raking it against my clit and swollen cunt. I’d shudder every time he raked my pussy, my legs buckling against the sensation—but not falling on my heels again lest he decide to add 10 more. I just wanted to drop to my knees and suck his cock. With a pussy so wet, how could he deny me a cock suck at this point? I was beyond horny, just dripping with lust, sex, lewdness. I wanted to be fucked and prodded.

When he noticed that I moved my pussy against the bristles of the hairbrush, he said, “So you like this, Slut? You like feeling your ass on fire? You enjoy getting a hairbrush used on your slutty little pussy?â€?

I turned my face to the side facing him, “Yes, Sir,â€? I breathed out heavily and groaned, almost crying with lust, “Please.â€?

“Please, what?â€?

“Please let me suck your cock.â€?

It’s on Spanking Blog, of course.

How To Write Dirty

Thanks to Violet Blue (who provides more context) I can link you to the Ten Commandments Of Smut, which is after being some excellent basic erotica-writing advice by M. Christian. Just one commandment for flavor:

II. Thou Shalt Not Own a Thesaurus

An exaggeration, of course (to get that vicious Roget off my case). The need to change a descriptive word after every sentence or paragraph is the clear sign of an amateur. Example: ‘cock’ in the first paragraph of the sex scene, becomes ‘rod’ in the second, ‘staff’ in the third, ‘pole’ in the forth … and you get my gist. The same goes for the silly need to be ‘polite’ in describing either a sex scene or various body parts. Unless you’re writing a Victorian homage (or pastiche), women don’t have a ‘sex’ between their legs, and a ‘member’ doesn’t live in a man’s trousers. If you can’t write ‘penis’, ‘clit’, ‘cock’, ‘cunt’, or the rest of the words you can’t say on television then find another job – or just write for television.

Try Not To Pee On Your Rope Harness

Wearing a rope harness in public has its perils, as Red explains:

It’s funny, I would have thought that the rope harness peaking out from under my black halter-top dress would have made me blush deeply if seen in public, but for some reason it wasn’t phasing me. No, instead my attention was focused on the rope ends dangling down the inside of my legs, cresting just below the short hem of my dress. Every time they grazed across my skin, I was sure my jolt and my smile were obvious to anyone watching.

The coffee shop closed, so we left. Monk finished his coffee with a flourish — how he did it so damned quickly was beyond me. I continued to nurse mine as we drove down the road. This leg of the car ride was particularly difficult – not only was I steadying a hot cup of coffee, I was trying to stabilize my wiggles and movements as the car went over bumps, doing my best to stop the rope drawn tight between my legs from making me yelp *too* much. I’m pretty sure I only partially succeeded.

The space was quite busy when we arrived, but we found a spot quickly nonetheless. I watched intently as he prepared for the scene ahead, taking it in, letting my imagination get ahead of itself as I did so. Finally, he looked at me with eyes that spoke their intent very clearly. We were about to begin.

“Better make a pit stop,” he told me, “Cause once we start…”

Visions of my crotch rope danced before my eyes. It’s like he could tell what flew through my mind, because he looked at me with terribly amused eyes and said “I guess you’d better be careful.”

I no doubt flushed red, as my embarrassment burned in my cheeks before channeling down my spine, making me ache deep within. As I fumbled with the rope, trying desperately (and successfully) not to pee on it, I blushed deeper. My sex throbbed deeply against the line of hemp drawn across its core, calling for more struggles and more friction. More more more…

I doubt that the blushing had subsided before I was back before him, but I didn’t care. His eyes smiled as he drew the rope through his hands.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Box Of Orgasms For Christmas?
• Twisted Monk Ties Up Violet Blue

Rimming Molly In The Basement

You don’t see too many fictional accounts of rimming, and this is the first I’ve ever seen that has a little funny twist at the end. It’s from this story by Vinnie Tesla:

Impulsively, I bury my face in an armpit, and drink in her sharp animal smell. She’s moaning and laughing at once as my beard tickles her delicate skin. I lick along the line of her shoulder blade, the muscles there flexing as she struggles playfully. I throw her tee-shirt to the ground, and push her against one of the basement’s grimy cinderblock walls. I pin her arms above her head, and give the other armpit a more thorough treatment.

She starts out laughing and twitching, but this gives way to quiet moans, that get louder when I bite. I release her arms and run my lips over the pale, freckled flesh above her bra. Impatiently I pull the bra up over her tits, and fix my mouth over one of her nipples, crinkled tight in the basement’s chill air. My hands find the catch of her bra, and it joins her tee shirt on the floor. Once again she grabs my head and holds it tightly as I worry and suck at her fat little bud. I hold her other breast in my hand. The flesh is breathtakingly soft, and fever-hot. I pull the nipple roughly, stretching the crinkles smooth. “Yeah,” she whispers in my ear, her hot breath sending shivers down my spine, “yeah.”

Still cradling my head with one hand, her other strokes the front of my jeans, and cups my cock with her open palm. “Mmm, nice,” she purrs.

“You like it?” I ask, my hands kneading her breasts, “soon it’s going to be buried in your cunt.”

She looks me in the eye teasingly. “Just my cunt?”

I open and close my mouth several times like a goldfish. So much for my attempt at the suave dirty-talker.

Molly laughs at my expression and begins struggling to get the legs of her overalls over her boots. Watching her breasts sway as she works, bent over, is irresistible. She tugs the overalls down her thighs, and sits on the floor to pull them off. Then, with a yelp, she’s up off the cold, damp concrete again, rubbing her chilled ass.

“Here, let me help with that,” I volunteer, and squat behind her. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Molly, you have got an amazing ass.” Broader than I expected, exquisitely round and smooth. Dusted with pale freckles. Flawless, so far as I can see. Groaning, I grab her hips and bury my face in that exquisite butt, licking and biting at the smooth, taut flesh. She presses back against me, and wiggles her hips slowly and sexily, enjoying the attention. Eventually, though: “Weren’t you gonna help me get my clothes off?”

“I got sidetracked,” I admit, and jerk her panties down to her knees before resuming my feast.

She begins skeptically, “That’s not a whole lot of– oooh, that feels good.” I’m kneading her cheeks hard with my hands now, while licking teasingly around the top of her crack.

“Bend over,” I tell her.

“Yes, sir!” she says sarcastically, but does so, resting her hands against the wall, and spreading her legs as much as her bunched clothes will allow. I stroke her ass lightly

“You want me to?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, almost inaudibly.

I pull at one of her cheeks, exposing her hidden parts. The skin of her anus is surprisingly dark, and fringed with wispy reddish hair. Below, the lips of her cunt are fat and swollen. She flinches a little when the wet handiwipe from my pocket touches the sensitive flesh of her asshole. I run it over the surface a few times, and then drop it onto the floor. My hands spread her cheeks, and I begin running my tongue along the skin just above her anus. Then I move down, and lick at her perineum, drawing a gasp from Molly. Finally I bring my tongue to her clenched little orifice, and rub against it with gentle pressure.

She lets a little shriek escape, followed by a low moan. I feel goosepimples rise on her muscular thighs, as she reaches down and cups her cunt in one hand. I’m alternating broad, spiraling licks with tighter, more aggressive ones, loving the feel of her soft flesh against my face. She’s slowly undulating her hips; each breath out is a long quiet moan.

The rocking of her hips accelerates; her voice rises in pitch. I (teasing bastard) rise to my feet and draw her up too. It takes a moment for her eyes to focus again, and then I’m seized in a bruising hug. “Oh, wow,” she says dreamily, “Oh, that was really nice. I haven’t done that before.”

“My *pleasure*,” I say emphatically. “But I’m a little confused. You said you wanted me to rim you, right?”

She grins. “I wanted you to *spank* me, you twit.” Before the blood can stop roaring in my ears, she continues: “Now help me get these off!”

Of course she does eventually get her spanking, which is how (via Spanking Blog) I came upon this story.

Gawker Media Goes To Vegas

Apparently there was just a big porn convention in Vegas, and Gawker Media was there. You may know Gawker Media for its several stylish blog titles, but it’s Fleshbot you’ll be most familiar with as an ErosBlog reader. Well, now I’ve been introduced to one of their newer titles, which also looks very promising indeed. Here now via Jezebel is Jezebel editor Tracie “Slut Machine” Egan’s Last Night I Boned An AVN Award Nominee, complete with “pictures or STFU” proof in the form of her triumphal hickie photograph:

They had this dude — the one I blew for a little bit in the bathroom — who was very easy to convince to come back to my hotel with me.

…

Back in the hotel, I decided I could use another drink (I really didn’t need it at all), and the dude I brought back with me said he wanted french fries, so we went to the Grand Lux Cafe (which is like the same thing as Cheesecake Factory) in the casino of the Venetian. We didn’t even touch what we ordered. We just drunkenly made out hardcore in the booth, and then I put my hand under the napkin on his lap and started jerking him off. Nobody blinked an eye. People weren’t even looking at us. When I remembered for a minute that I was in public and came up for air, I looked around and saw that people were too immersed in their own 3 AM dramas played out over extra large servings of fried food. One lady was crying next to a tight-jawed man, who was looking anywhere but at her face. The middle-aged gay couple next to us were arguing over whether to share or get their own meals. And the waiters were just happy that we weren’t bothering them with requests.

The dude put his dick back in his pants, we got the check and went back up to my room. (I’m sharing it with Jonno and Dash from Fleshbot.) We have an awesome suite; there are two beds and a sofa bed. Since I was the last one home, I got the sofa bed in the living room area, but that was fine for my purposes. Me and the dude went into the bathroom (I don’t have a picture of it, but it’s pretty grand) and just went at it. He lifted me onto the marble counter top. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, koala-bear style, and he fucked the shit out of me. He ruled and his dick was nice. I told him that he should maybe consider working in front of the camera instead of behind it.

We stayed in there for a little bit more and he finger banged me. I ended up squirting all over the damn place — which hasn’t happened to me in what seems like ages. It was shooting out sideways and shit, getting on both of our legs. I’m always a little afraid for that to happen in front of dudes, ’cause it’s such a fucking mess sometimes, but he seemed to be really into it.

Then we went to the sofa bed and I had every intention of falling asleep and not fooling around (the boys were just like 10 or 20 feet away), but he kept kissing me, and he was really too cute to turn down. I ended up blowing him again, and then he came on my tits. What the hay! We’re in Vegas!

We passed out, but I think I was only sleeping for like an hour before I felt his boner pressing up on my ass again. I pushed back, and before I knew it, we were spoon-fucking. Seriously, this guy is more of a machine than I am. I woke up in the morning with this:

I was kinda pissed about it. I’m not thirteen, you know. But Jonno put it into perspective for me when he said, “Consider yourself lucky that you fucked someone at the porn convention and all you got was a hickey.”

George Carlin On Strip Nation

From an interview in Playboy, kindly typed in by Hump Jones, this observation by the guru George Carlin:

It’s actually a weird time for sex. Sex is all over the place in this culture. It’s wide open. Compared with the 1960’s, when it was merely an aspect of youth culture — free love and all that –it’s a virtual sexual carnival right now. You’ve got the internet, strip clubs, porn stars on the radio. Even regular television is all cleavage and legs and asses and hot policewomen on CSI. You got into any hotel and you can buy movies in which the mailman shows up with a big hard-on and suddenly he’s fucking three women at a tupperware party — and it all goes straight to your hotel bill.

Her O Face

No, not that kind of “O”; or, at least, I don’t imagine so. This looks more like an “Oh shit, what’s he doing?” face, or perhaps an “Omigod, I had no idea it was possible to experience that sensation!”

Perhaps we could blame the weighted nipple clamps, but they’re padded and the weights look to be resting on the floor. However, observe that our intent man in charge has got a power cord running over her knee to whatever electrical appliance he’s deploying between her legs in the vicinity of her nether regions. Since this is not a government photograph, we can assume the device is not a soldering iron. So, what’s he got?

My money’s on a violet wand, or perhaps a powerful vibrator.

From Hogtied.com.

Client Gets Screwed

The thing about erotic story repositories on the internet that makes them so interesting is that they are structurally noncommercial. Which is to say, for the most part, they accumulate the sort of erotic fiction that nobody wants to be in the business of selling in print.

It would be easy to say more generally that amateur erotic fiction isn’t of commercial quality, but that’s a cop-out; it’s so hard to make money selling erotic fiction that, strictly speaking, virtually all of it that exists isn’t “commercial quality” if you define that as “you could sell enough of this to be worth publishing it.” No, I’m talking about thematic elements that would, at the very least, complicate any commercial distribution, themes and scenarios that make business people nervous and/or queasy. Rape, incest, sex at any age, bestiality, rare fetishes, social taboos, and every imaginable combination thereof: “I caught my teacher fucking her dog and blackmailed her with the photos, I made her wear sweaty rubber boots, call me Master, and suck my cock in the supply closet — and then I made her take my little brother and his Nintendo buddies on a field trip to the petting zoo!”

This, of course, is a specific instance of the general case, the root nature of the internet that makes it so wonderful and terrible. No matter how narrow your interest, you can get anything you want, but you’ll find it cheek-by-jowl with a million things that will raise your eyebrows until they ache.

Doubt me? Go have a look at The Kristen Archives. If there’s a better place on the internet to find sex stories, I haven’t seen it. But you simply must be adult about it. Skim the summaries; if a story’s not for you, don’t read it. For extra credit and true advancement toward mastery, cultivate the ability to appreciate what’s hot about a story while disregarding the elements (stylistic or thematic) that aren’t.

Your example for the day is Screwed, featuring an amoral attorney who’s clearly more excited by the financial screwing he gives his client than he is by the blowjob he enjoys from her. If you’re a professional of any kind, you might find yourself too outraged to enjoy the story. Which would be a shame, because there’s no law that says villains can’t be funny in the conduct of their villainy:

I wound my hand in her hair and jerked her head back and forth, each time forcing more of my dick into her mouth until she was almost choking, but she never pulled back. When she reached between her legs and began playing with her pussy as I roughly jerked her head onto my cock, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was getting off on the rough treatment. I would like to have experimented more, but the tremendous mental and physical stimulation pushed me over the top, and with almost painful jets, I shot a copious load of jism down her throat, my cock unbelievably huge and purple looking, the orgasm without a doubt the best I’d ever experienced in a woman’s mouth, making it feel even better.

I collapsed backward onto my elbows, basking in the after-glow, my cock still twitching in her hand as she licked her lips and swallowed the remains of my wad. Then, squeezing up the length of my cock, she forced up a final dollop of sperm, and looking at me, and squeezing the huge drip onto her tongue, she let me watch her spread it around her mouth and slowly and with a sensuous grin, swallowed the entire thing. Then, as though not yet satisfied, she sucked my cock clean of every last drop of cum, kissed my balls tenderly and sat back in her chair with a brilliant smile, rearranging her skirt, giving me a shot of her unpantied beaver before dropping the skirt primly into place.

I let my head drop back onto the desk, eyes closed, trying to regain my strength. I’d never had a head shot like that. The woman was a vampire — she positively loved cum. I glanced at the clock and with a shock realized that she’d sucked me for almost 20 minutes, and that we were almost through the lunch hour. Quickly, I refigured her bill. I’d need to get paid for that extra hour now, and — what the hell — she’d just had her lunch on me! I tacked $50.00 dollars onto her bill. That would make it $350.00. But then I realized that she’d probably dicker with me, so I threw on another $100.00 to give me something to work with, for a total of $450.00 less her discount. I’d just gotten paid $150.00 for blowing my wad down my client’s throat!

As I watched her repair her lipstick, I thought about the glimpse of her hairy cooze I’d gotten as she’d pulled the skirt down. I was still excited and the thought of fucking this ‘respectable’ mother of two made my cock start to stand up again. I didn’t bother to put it away.

“Well, Karen, that was great — you certainly have talent — but now there’s the matter of your bill.”

Well, of course, she’d expected that the entire bill would be forgiven based on her performance, but I gave her a lecture on overhead travel fees, etc., then made my pitch for the discount. But before I did it, a perverse streak caused me to quote her $550.00 as my bill to see what she’d say. She seemed taken aback, but I pointed out that I’d done a lot of research before we’d gone to court. I gently explained to her that just because she’d assumed that I’d dismiss the whole bill didn’t constitute a contract because we’d had no discussion beforehand. Then I asked her what she thought her services had been worth. Just as I thought, she undervalued them-obviously low self esteem-and dubiously quoted $100.00. I could have backed her down, but I had another plan in mind. I accepted her offer, and generously knocked off another $50.00 to show good faith. That term always gets them, even though it meant nothing in this case. Now we were down to $400.00.

She had brightened appreciably. I then offered her a chance to knock the bill down another $50.00 if I could fuck her — and I said it just like that. She acted as though the very words turned her on. But, believe it or not, she was getting bolder, and came back with $100.00. We finally settled on $75.00. I was on a roll, and I could have gotten her down to $50.00 — but, what the hell, I’m not totally devoid of conscience!

Gorgeous Acre Of Femininity

I really don’t know what I could say that would improve on this excerpt from a cheesy novel from another age. Politically correct clucking aside, what’s to say? But I think it will amuse you all:

Lars put his hand behind her head and drew her toward him. They touched lips. He thought of Terry and how ridiculous it was to prefer anyone to this gorgeous acre of femininity. She pressed her lips to his. ‘You tough little bastard.’

It didn’t bother him. It was a kick for her and a kick for him. The mismatch of the century. He took her in his arms, bending over her as she stuck her legs straight out and slouched lower. He kissed her hard, slid his lips down her neck to her breasts. She wiggled her legs and said ‘Ummm, baby.’ He found a zipper near her armpit and worked it. The dress loosened, and he drew it down from her shoulders. He found the hook in back. ‘Introducing,’ he murmured, and took off her brassiere. Big, all right. A feast, and not only for the eyes. He feasted.

After a while she led him to her bedroom and stripped, turning and posing for his pleasure. She stopped him from undressing. She wanted to do it herself. She undressed him as if he were a baby, cooing over him and doing everything but carry him to the bed. She even tried that, but couldn’t make it. He laughed and it was still a kick and he was ready. But she wasn’t. She kept stalling, kept playing.

An hour passed, a full hour, and he grew tired and testy. ‘Be a big girl,’ he said, and pushed her down and pulled at her legs. She rolled over onto her stomach, but her backward glance was melting. He realized this was what she wanted. She wouldn’t ask for it because asking adulterated true toughness, but she wanted a hard man, a mean man, the man who had kicked Sommy in the nuts. He smacked her big rear end. She said, ‘No, I won’t!’ He smacked it again, the sound ringing out in the silent house. He thought of Terry. Was she next door, listening to them, jealous and sexually excited?

He smacked Mona’s rear five times, his hand stinging from the force of the blows, the sound loud enough to waken anyone in the house. Mona whimpered and rolled onto her side. ‘You hurt me.’ Her eyes blinked back tears. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her flat on her back. She tried to draw up her legs. He slapped her face. She said, ‘Not that.’ He slapped her again and jammed his knee between her thighs. ‘Not that,’ he mocked. ‘You want me to pat the famous fanny all night. Not that. You want Lars to perform by the script.’

She wept, pressing her legs together. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Go away. You’re not –‘

He grabbed a breast. ‘If you don’t open –‘

She cried out. Her legs opened. He stroked her face and kissed her. He told her how beautiful, how desirable she was, and she wept softly and called him a rat and rapist and hugged him and bit his shoulder.

It went very well. As soon as it ended her eyes closed and she began to doze, mumbling that she hadn’t slept well all week and please phone her soon.

From The Movie Maker by Herbert Kastle (1968).

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Marital Spanking, Comic Book Style
• "Honest, Officer, It Was Marital Advice I Read On A Blog"

Strap On Sex

From the Red Sneaker Diaries, we have this description of what it feels like for a woman to fuck another woman with a strap-on:

This was one of the first few times I fucked Anna with the feeldoe strapped on — and this time, it felt natural. Strap-on sex has a learning curve – much like any other sex act, really. The “strap-er” can’t be expected to fuck like a Casanova the first time out of the gates, but after some awkward first times, it gets easier. And after it gets easier, it starts to feel natural. When it feels natural, you’re there — no more flubs, no more hesitation, no more mistakes. Just good, hearty strap on sex

Coupling the feeldoe with a harness is truly brilliant. The feeldoe will stay in place on its own, but only with decently closed legs. This limits its usefulness. Strapped into place, its stays put — perky, firm and ready to fuck. In fact, even though the straps felt awkward at first, the fact that they allow the feeldoe to cradle so firmly into me makes me forget that they’re there. Void of distracting worries of it falling out, I am free the let the feeldoe become part of me, to become an extension of my cunt. The silicone is inert, but it allows the quivers and shakes and strokes of a fuck to channel deep within me, fueling the the burning desire of my sex.

It’s a real trip, you know, fucking a girl with a strap on. My inert cock, spreading sensation to me, elicits reactions from her. Everything is delayed, sensations conveyed by proxy through the blue silicone cock between my legs. Her body tenses under me — I see her orgasm before I feel the jolting of the feeldoe on my gspot. For the briefest of seconds, I am simply an observer — watching transfixed as her orgasm washes over her. Then, suddenly, my world is flooded with that feeling — my own thighs flutter in response as I thrust again.

(I think she’s using the word “feeldoe” in reference to this product.)

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.

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

Sex Under The Bed

I’ve heard of a lot of things, but I’ve never heard of having sex under the bed before:

Some of the better moments were when we were trapped in confined spaces. Brendan has a little bit of an attraction to claustrophobic locations and couplings whether that means having sex under the bed, which we did, or light contortion and bondage, which we also did, there’s something about having a woman cornered that excites him.

As we were in the closet, he angled me so that I was tightly wedged in the corner with my legs wrapped around him. When he thrust, he did so forcefully, trying to get me even further into the small space afforded by the corner and the sound of various parts of me smacking against the walls made him extremely excited.

As for the under the bed sex, it too was interesting. He had me get under the bed, which was remarkably clean, with my entire torso and head obscured and my hips and legs sticking out from under. He proceeded to both go down on me and then turn me onto my stomach so he could fuck me from behind. I’ll admit, there was something a little exciting about that for me as well. I could only imagine what it would look like to a third person: this disembodied set of legs and hips sticking out from under a bed being manipulated by a fully visible second party.

From Postmodern Courtesan.

Upskirt Photography For Prudes

No, no, it’s not quite what you think. It’s just, MonMouth got accused of being a prude, all evidence to the contrary:

“Spread,” I said to Coco, sitting on a bench in a busy public park. She was wearing a tantalizingly short skirt, no knickers, and I knew that her pussy would still be throbbing from the hard fuck that started our day.

Slightly startled, she didn’t uncross her legs immediately. I could see that the idea appealed to her, but she needed another prod – needed me to tell her to do it. For her, the joy of being told is half the pleasure of indulgence.

Coco spread her legs and looked around to see if anyone noticed what we were up to. Phone in hand, camera on, I reached in between her muscular thighs and the mechanical eye made a satisfying synthesized click.

On Looking At Women

CJ at Boyspoke posts from the front lines in an LA gym, about getting glared at when looking at women:

The thing is, these women — you know, the ones at the gym? They’re dressed — umm — gorgeously. Yes, even at the gym. I mean, I know Spandex is a privilege and not a right, but these women deserve to wear Spandex. Some of them even go as far as to wear athletic bras. And just athletic bras…at least on top; yes, they put on stuff that covers their other parts. It’s like, hel-LO, gorgeous women are all around me and some of them are dressed in even less than the ones I see walking down the street!

Naturally, I look. And I’m not really a gawker, but there are some times when I’m checking out the women. You would, too. It’s not like I’m making comments and pointing or being incredibly obvious or anything like that, I’m just, you know…gently checking them out. The problem is: some of them apparently don’t take kindly to being checked out. I get dirty looks in return.

I call foul on that. In fact, I call triple-foul on that. For crying out loud, if you’re dressed in an outfit like that, how can you expect me not to check you out? You’re wearing next to nothing. And the stuff that you are wearing is barely leaving anything to the imagination. Honestly, I think it’s be a crime for me not to look.

Here’s my thing: If you don’t want to be checked out, then dress accordingly. If you don’t want me to look at your boobs, cover them. If you don’t want me to admire your legs, don’t wear short shorts. There’s no law that prohibits you from wearing a loose t-shirt and baggy track pants instead of a sports bra and Spandex Daisy Dukes. And if you do wear the sports bra and Spandex Daisy Dukes … you’re not allowed to be displeased when I check you out.

First of all, there’s admittedly a line between looking and leering that not all men can find — or maybe they just don’t care to. But if we assume, despite the dirty look evidence to the contrary, that CJ is safely on the right side of the line with his “gently checking them out”, what’s up with that?

I know the gym is a problem for some women; in my town we’ve got women-only gyms and gyms with women-only areas for just this reason. But at the coed gym, when a woman has dressed to impress, does she really expect the guys to maintain monastic eyes-front-and-downcast look-at-nothing-but-the-equipment-in-front-of-me eyeball discipline? If so, is she not manifestly insane?

I have my own theory, which is that when she’s dressed to impress but glaring at you for looking, you’re not in the category of people whose eye she hoped to catch. Just for instance, you might be a man, ugh, and she might be there to attract the gaze of another woman. Or you might not meet her standard of beauty; she wants to catch the eye of someone as svelte as herself, and can’t abide being looked at by some regularly-sized slug.

Thinking About A Shave

Farmboyz seems to put a lot of thought into his shaving:

I left the bedroom without answering him. I began to collect what I would need, and that included my thoughts about doing this. Within seconds of his request, I had decided that shaving Jamie would not be much of a turn-on for me, but that I did love seeing the way passion wracked his slender body, making his back arch like the flare of a sunspot, and causing the shaking muscles of his legs to knot. With this in mind, I was curious to see what heightened reactions this ritual might produce. He was calling me from the bed.

“Just a minute. I’m getting some stuff together for this.”

I opened the linen closet and collected my favorite faded soft blue towel in the folds of which you may hear the ocean. In the bathroom, a fresh double-edged Good News razor and a can of mentholated Gillette Foamy. I would need a bowl of water, and once I had selected that bowl and filled it, there would be nothing left to delay my return to the bedroom. I stood in the pantry, fussing over this decision.

I thought about the young man in my bed who was calling my name. I felt as if I were about to be admitted into the last room of him, and that once I had inspected its contents, I’d be slipping out the back door, with no farewells, and with no intention of returning. Jamie might remain with me for days or weeks longer, but there would be distance between us that he would not notice.

I stretched to reach a high shelf, pulling down an old stoneware bowl, the bottom of which was incised with “Ruckel’s Pottery, 1870, White Hall, Ill.” It was glazed with the same cornflower blue of the towel. Men with eyes of this color can own me if they wish. Jamie’s eyes were this color.

I wondered what the previous owners of this bowl would feel about its imminent employment. Sensible women of the heartland. Daughters of the pioneers, preparing simple food grown on their plains, gently hand washing this bowl for decades, keeping it bright and flawless. I saw them with their hands folded in their laps, seated on small chairs in a circle around the bed, around Jamie, who is smiling up at me as I return to the bedroom, his knees drawn up to his chin and his dick drooping like a sprig of lilac onto the dark sheets.

But don’t he write purty?

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.

Anal Sex Toys

Sometimes I have to link to an article (like this one on playing with anal toys) as much for the post title as for the content. How can you not read an article entitled A Spy In The House Of Ass?

My girl’s eyes grow wide as I remove the fatter butt plug from its packaging and brandish it before her. “You wanna put that in me?”

“C’mon, it’s not that big. I had mine in for like half an hour.”

She relents. I watch, fascinated, as her little asshole expands to accommodate the plug at its widest cross-section and then collapses around the narrow neck above the base, locking the toy into position. Leslie sighs. I pull her to the edge of the mattress, push her legs against her chest and plunge into her cunt. “Now you have both holes filled, you little slut!”

And when she comes the butt plug shoots out of her, bouncing off the wooden floor like a rubber ball. We both giggle. I switch holes — if the butt plug won’t keep her rear-end occupied I will — and it’s not long before I burst inside her, my knees threatening to buckle.

Phone Sex Talk

No, not quite what you think:

We went back to my apartment, and sat on my bed talking for hours. I’m great at getting girls onto my bed, but notoriously chicken about making the first move. We talked about sex to the point that I was squirming. I gave her a tour of my sex-toy drawer. It was obvious to me that we both wanted to do something but I just couldn’t.

By 5 am, we were naked in the dark, tucked under the covers in my big, soft, bed; still chaste, but so hot. The phone rang, and it was my boyfriend, calling me after his date, wanting to know about mine. I asked him all the questions I usually ask him after a playdate: Did you have fun? Did you fuck her? Did she suck your cock? Is she prettier than I am? And I answered his questions: Yes, it’s been a fun night. No, we haven’t kissed yet. Yes, she’s completely adorable and I really, really want to.

I felt her hand slide across my belly and up onto my breast. Her fingertips grazed my nipple and pulled. I arched up into her, smiled, and sighed with relief and pent up lust. “Nothing’s happened so far, but she just tweaked my nipple, so I’m taking that as a very good sign,” I told him. He and I talked for about 5 more minutes, with her hands roaming freely over my body. I guess she didn’t really know if it was okay for us to play until she heard exactly how okay it was with my lover, or maybe she just thought it was hot to distract me as I was talking. At any rate, she made the impossible first move and I was so happy that she did. I told him I loved him, hung up the phone, and we practically leaped on each other.

We kissed, touched, and squirmed, with our legs intertwined and hands everywhere. Neither of us vied for dominance; it was a sweet, exploratory makeout. She reached for my pussy and touched me tenatively, gently, and intuitively. I gasped to feel how wet I was. I knew that I would be, but that initial moment of discovery– the moment of finding just how swollen, slick and sensitive my cunt was, literally took my breath away.

From Suburban Sexpot.

A Love Poem

From Sexoteric, an oldie but goodie:

‘Twas noon when I, scorch’d with the double fire

Of the hot sun and my more hot desire,

Stretch’d on my downy couch at ease was laid,

Big with expectance of the lovely maid.

The curtains but half drawn, a light let in

Such as in shades of thickest groves is seen,

Such as remains when the sun flies away,

Or when night’s gone, and yet it is not day.

This light to modest maids must be allow’d,

Where shame may hope its guilty head to shroud.

And now my love Corinna did appear,

Loose on her neck fell her divided hair;

Loose as her flowing gown, that wanton’d in the air.

In such a garb, with such a grace and mien,

To her rich bed came the Assyrian queen;

So Lais looked when all the youth of Greece

With adoration did her charms confess.

Her envious gown to pull away I tried,

But she resisted still, and still denied;

But so resisted that she seem’d to be

Unwilling to obtain the victory;

So I at last an easy conquest had,

Whilst my fair combatant herself betray’d.

But when she naked stood before my eyes,

Gods, with what charms did she my soul surprise!

What snowy arms did I both see and feel!

With what rich globes did her soft bosom swell!

Plump as ripe clusters rose each glowing breast,

Courting the hand, and suing to be press’d!

What a smooth plain was on her belly spread,

Where thousand little loves and graces play’d!

What thighs! what legs ! but why strive I in vain,

Each limb, each grace, each feature to explain

One beauty did through her whole body shine;

I saw, admir’d, and press’d it close to mine

The rest who knows not? Thus entranc’d we lay,

Till in each other’s arms we died away;

0 give me such a noon, ye gods, to ev’ry day!

— by Ovid (translated by Richard Duke)

In Praise Of Female Sexuality

I’m very impressed by the quoted portion of this article:

It’s time someone praised and defended reckless teenage girls and young women who behave badly, dress provocatively, engage in risky sex, and get pregnant. They are the normal ones. The rest of us are the deviants. They are behaving in the most natural way. The rest of us are mutants.

There is nothing wrong with pelvic display, push-up bras, Gosford miniskirts, spray-on jeans, low-cut tops, bare legs, bare arms, bare ankles, G-strings or even buttock cleavage, providing the displayer is young enough to get away with it. A woman’s body is at its fertility peak between the ages of 17 and 23. So when young women advertise or flaunt their sexuality they are being driven by a force far stronger than the Judeo-Christian ethic. They are driven by the power of peak fertility and a million years of evolutionary biology. Nature has programmed them for pregnancy, genetic diversity and keeping the species going. A big job.

Sexually active teenage girls, and sexually promiscuous women of any age, carry the greatest social burden of judgements, punishments, restrictions and risks because we haven’t got the child-care equation right. These women are just doing their job. They are real, while the rest of the equation is artificial. Society is the collective weight of traditions, conventions, laws, habits, fears, tribes, taboos and technologies, permeated by a Judeo-Christian ethic dominated by men and designed to curb female sexual power. Our norms are also dominated by the ideology of materialism that is moving women further and further towards unnatural behaviour, pressuring them to have babies later rather than sooner.

This is society’s real problem. Teenage pregnancy is trivial by comparison to suppressed pregnancy.

In other words, it’s not those damned horny kids who have the problem, it’s us grownups, who’ve built a society where you have to study and train and work your way up for far too many years, before you finally gain the economic power necessary to have children responsibly without depending on anybody else.

Female Sexual Submission

As you know full well if you surf the sex blogs much, there’s a peculiar surplus of angst-ridden blogs by women who self-identify as sexually submissive. A frequent theme for the angst seems to be the tension between these women’s desires to be or to feel sexually submissive, and their desires to be fully valued as free and autonomous human beings.

It’s in that light that DTG’s trenchant observations on the difference between sexual submission and boring old acquiescence strike me as being most useful. I’ll let you click through for the bit on acquiescence, but the bit on submission is too fun not to quote:

Submission is right there in our physiology. We feel it in our bodies from the first time we get fucked. Like puppies, we roll on our backs and expose our soft bellies and breasts, spread our legs, and let you big guys have free run of our most tender parts. Not only do we submit, we wag our bums and pant joyfully and sometimes pee ourselves with excitement. Well, some of us do. Heh.

Tranny Porn

If you’re anything like me, at some point in your life you’ve wondered “What in the hell is up with all the tranny porn? What’s the market for this stuff, anyway?”

Now, “tranny porn” in this sense is a politically incorrect marketing label, roughly synonymous with the more descriptive if no more euphonious “chicks with dicks”. And it’s a big porn genre in its own right, not (apparently, and judging by the shelving arrangements at your average video store) some odd little subgenre in the gay porn section. We’re not talking about something you can only buy under a rainbow flag in the Casto District. No, you’ll find plenty of this stuff in the plywood building with no windows, the one that’s two blocks down County 99 past the travel plaza, just before you get to the grain elevators.

So who’s watching it?

Can’t say. In all my life, I never yet came across anybody who admitted to watching the stuff or being attracted to pretty women with “the meat between the legs”. Until now: Yeah, I like transsexuals, what are you gonna do about it?

Tentacle Sex, Shunga Style

In case you thought tentacle sex was a modern Japanese kink, this vintage shunga image ought to disabuse you:

The artist is the famous Katsushika Hokusai, who died in 1849. What’s more, there’s a link at Tentacle Porn to a putative translation of the script surrounding the image. No warranties, express or implied:

OCTOPUS MAXIMUS: My wish comes true at last, this day of days; finally I
have you in my grasp! Your “bobo” is ripe and full, how wonderful! Superior
to all others! To suck and suck and suck some more. After we do ot
masterfully, I’ll guide yo to the Dragon Palace of the Sea God and envelope
you. “Zuu sufu sufu chyu chyu chyu tsu zuu fufufuuu…”

MAIDEN: You hateful octopus! Your sucking at the mouth of my womb makes me
gasp for breath! Aah! yes… it’s… There.!!! With the sucker, the
sucker!! inside, squiggle, squiggle, Oooh! Oooh, good, Oooh good! There,
there! Theeeeere! Goood! Whew! Aah! Good, good, Aaaaaaaaaah! Not yet!
Until now it was I that men called an octopus! An octopus! Ooh! Whew! How
are you able…!? Ooh! “yoyoyooh, Saa… Hicha hicha gucha gucha, yuchyuu
chyu guzu guzu suu suuu….”

OCTOPUS MAXIMUS: All eigth legs (arms?) to interwine with!! How do you like
it htis way? Ah, look! The inside has swollen, moistened by the warm waters
of lust. “Nura nura doku doku doku…”

MAIDEN: Yes, it tingles now; soon there will be no sensation at all left my
hips. Ooooooh! Boundaries and borders gone! I ‘ve Vanished….!!!!!!

OCTOPUS MINIMUM: After daddy finishes, I too want to rub and rub my suckers
at the ridge of your furry place until you disappear and then I’ll suck
some more, “chyu chyu..”

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.

Female Body Beautiful

Maybe it’s because R has made me feel more like a woman than I have in years…..I spent alot of time last night looking at lingerie sites. We aren’t going to be a couple, he lives too far away from me and his life is too hectic. But for the first time in years, I feel pretty. I feel appreciated for my mind and my body, and since I almost never show off my body, I’m thinking maybe that’s part of what I was doing wrong. My legs are nice, but I’m not really curvy enough higher up.

With something like this, though, I’d be really curvy in all the right ways:

From a gorgeous blog I found, called Corset Dreams. This one is my favorite of the many pictures currently posted, for two reasons. One is the retro look, the other is that huge choker around her neck.

Happy T-Day!

Hi all. Sorry I’ve been absent. At the last minute I decided to go home for Thanksgiving…..which meant alot of driving deep into Bible-belt land. I didn’t think I’d have much to blog about from here, but last night a longtime dream/fantasy came true.

There was this guy I’d had a crush on in sixth grade; he was cute and cocky and not afraid to be nice to us girls. I didn’t think he knew I existed…..but I found out later that he liked me too. But, I found that out at a bad time, because I was going with somebody else. When we broke up, he was going with somebody….but by the time they broke up, I was going with somebody again, and that’s how it went. We were good friends throughout high school but lost touch after that. Even though our families are still here, we never met up.

Until last night, anyway. I was at a store getting some booze to hide in my room, and in he walked. Not quite as blond as I remember, not as skinny, either, but still with his self-confident strut–and a nicely balding top of the head. Even better than the version of him that was part of alot of my college fantasies.

I immediately felt a rush of warmth to my nether regions, along with a telltale moistness between my legs. Then he turned, saw me, and got the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen on his face.

Making a long story short, we’re both single right now, so……we had a real fun time last night, steaming up the windows of his SUV. I can’t think of a better person to have unleashed all my stored-up horniness on. No matter what happens around the dinner table tomorrow, it’s been the best Thanksgiving ever for me already. :D

And speaking of Thanksgivings, here’s a small token of my appreciation for my fellow sex-bloggers, erotica enthusiasts, and kinky kindred spirits:

But It’s True!

One of my previous lovers seemed to be uncomfortable with me caressing his body…as long as I was working on the usual hot spots, he was happy. But if I caressed his sexy-curvy torso, or his muscular biker legs, he got skittish. It was okay for him to appreciate my female form, but not for me to appreciate his male form. I’ve since known a few other guys like that, and it’s sad, sad, sad.

Male bods can be curvy-beautiful too. I present as Exhibit A:

I know I’d like to “touch him, all over his body”…

Courtesy of Eros Gallery. Beautiful male nude art.

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

“Honest, Officer, It Was Marital Advice I Read On A Blog”

From time to time I can’t help revisiting Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You (although I do it in the same spirit as a man goes to the racetrack to watch a demolition derby). The prevailing view over at Why Your Wife on this too-frequent lament of the modern American husband tends toward the “try acting more like a woman and she might … just might, so don’t get your hopes up … decide to have sex with you again someday” variety.

Like the flying squirrel said, “Aw, Bullwinkle, that trick never works.”

On the other hand, there’s a comment over in a “Sex And Marriage” post by Quiver. Quiver gives some potentially useful advice to a man in those unhappy sexless straits, only to have a commenter share a rather more robust strategy:

“If all else fails (or if you prefer, before trying anything else) put her over your knee and with one arm firmly around her waist to hold her in place, yank her knickers down and spank her bare bottom very hard until she howls. Then spank her vigorously again until she begs at the top of her voice to be allowed to spread her legs and offers her pussy (which will probably be glistening wet by now). Then allow her to service your cock in whichever way you please. A woman who has just been spanked often sucks exquisitely well, and on her knees doing it she can look deliciously beautiful, so that may be a good starting place.”

Kids, don’t try this at home. Enormous downside potential if it doesn’t work — complete with sirens and handcuffs and a well-deserved orange jumpsuit.

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.

Sex Advice About Hot Wax

Sasha responds in her Love Bites column to a question about playing with hot wax. After some quick practical advice (no beeswax, best to use small white candles you can get a precise grip on, that sort of thing), she begins to get creative:

I was also curious about the wax people use to do their bikini lines and legs. Hmmm… how would that feel dribbled on the ass cheeks and other delicate areas, then ripped off? Kind of a reverse spanking. Delicious! So I got out the Test Buttocks and the Andrea Warm Wax Kit and experimented to see what happens.

Three hours later: OK, seriously you guys, BEST GAME EVER. I don’t like to quantify things this way, but I am going to put this in my top 10 sex experiences of all time. Not only is the hot-wax-dripping part of this exciting (you get excellent control with the small spatulas provided, and the wax is a beautiful teal green that goes pearly when it dries), but the tearing is apparently, for those who like this kind of pain, perfection. Tips: put the pot of hot wax on a plate to avoid a mess, hold the plate above the victim and start the dripping from a high level to establish thresholds. The wax can also be reused, but you may find certain impressions it makes lovely mementoes.

You’ve just got to love a sex advice columnist who keeps a set of “Test Buttocks” handy.

The Girl In My Suitcase

Well, not in my suitcase, actually. But it’s not a bad idea. Talk about taking along all the comforts of home!

Anyway, this is from Suitcase Girl.

Thanks to TickleFight for the link.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• A Genuinely Hogtied Genuine Darling
• The Virtual Contortionist
• June Is Naked Bride Season
• Because She Can

Say These Things For A Happy Thanksgiving

Shell is reprising her food porn turkey day utterances. Don’t miss her Things To Say At Thanksgiving:

Tying the legs together will keep the insides moist.
It’s a little dry, do you still want to eat it?
Just spread the legs and stuff it in!
You still have a little bit on your chin.

And so forth. It’s makin’ me hungry and I haven’t even had my morning coffee!

If You Ask a Snoopy Question…

So it seems Tara and Jeff were setting up furniture last night for their enhanced bondage convenience. And of course they considered, as one must, what might happen if somebody notices their arrangements. Jeff’s got the ultimate answer to that one. Says Tara:

Apparently if anyone asks why there’s rope strung around the legs of our bed my answer is to be “we have sex in there.” That Jeff, he’s always thinking!

Remember, folks, never ask a question unless you’re sure you really want to know the answer!

Nice Guys Redux

I really appreciate all the comments and responses I’ve gotten to the thread about nice guys, assholes, and female preference. The Boss over at The Collar Purple had a bit to say on the subject, and I’ve received numerous thoughtful emails on the subject as well. For instance, Sharon wrote that I got it wrong:

No, no, no, “doormat” is not the same as “attentive, considerate, emotionally involved, willing to
talk about feelings”.

They *are* different things. It is perfectly possible to be all those latter things (which women generally DO want) and NOT a doormat. I know many examples.

The big problem is: most men who do do the attentive, considerate, etc. thing are ALSO doormats. The challenge for a man is to be that stuff whilst also NOT being a doormat. I won’t say that it isn’t difficult, but it is possible.

It’s finding the difference between “attentive”, and “always pays more attention to her than to himself”. We don’t want the latter, which is doormatty. We want someone who can stick up for himself. We don’t want someone who always pays more attention to himself than to her, either. There is a middle ground!

Perhaps there is, but I’d have to say it sounds like a very narrow middle. In any case, the “we want someone who can stick up for himself” meme appears to have legs. Amber suggests:

Girls don’t like nice guys because they are almost always self-deprecating. That’s the crux of their “niceness,” they’re modest. Understand, that societal pressure lead most women to believe that they need to be protected, or at least have to marry someone who COULD protect them if necessary. When a guy puts himself down, a girl generally thinks “he’s nice, but if I were in a vulnerable position, would he stick up for me?” The answer is invariably no, because it’s obvious that the man will not even stick up for himself. While nice guys will argue that they WOULD stick up for the woman, she has no proof that this is fact. So she dates an asshole, feeling that if worse comes to worse, he’ll go to bat for her. This isn’t true, but there is more evidence to support that than the nice guy doing it.

Which sounds like a plausible theory. At least, it explains why those guys who are always picking fights in bars never lack for dates.

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!

Detailed Pussy Shaving Instructions

Lots of guys really enjoy a clean shaven lady. It can be visually and tactilely exciting, and it helps prevent getting hairs stuck in your teeth during oral sex, not that that’s a huge problem or anything. Unfortunately a lot of women have practical issues with shaving: razor burn, ingrown hairs, et cetera.

Fortunately, Smooth Shaven Shell (who used to be found at the now-defunct Across the Atlantic blog) has posted a guest blog post at Gut Rumbles that consists of exceedingly detailed instructions and suggestions for the shaving woman, complete with a ten step program:

I have a very hairy pussy. Thick dark hair on pale skin, and it isn’t confined to a neat little triangle. It spills down the tops of my thighs maybe half an inch or so.

This was all fine and good when I was married to Other Person, who didn’t really give a shit what I looked like, when he bothered to notice me at all. I’ve been separated from him now for 10 months and I have a wonderful new lover who does notice me.

He asked me to shave my labia. For the anatomically challenged, that’s the outer lips of the pussy. I was able to shave that without razor rash. The skin of the labia is different somehow than the mons. Whenever I tried to shave the mons, I got major razor burn. That is a very unpleasant place to have razor burn, as you can imagine. I was also opposed to shaving the mons because I love the feeling of my lover running his fingers through my pussy hair.

Then I found the correct tool for the job. A good electric shaver is far superior to a razor. I can pull it over the most delicate areas without nicks or cuts. It handles all the hills and hollows trying to shave down there requires. I love it.

My lover shaved me completely bald down there. It reduced some kinds of sensations (hair follicles rest in a net of nerves, which is why it feels so good when someone brushes your hair and hurts so bad if they pull it) but heightened others.

My lover likes it. A lot. So until he changes his mind, I’m keeping it smooth.

Maintaining A Shaven Pussy

1. If you are starting from long and hairy, like I did, trim it all short with a pair of scissors. Like 1/4″ or so. And unless you’re in a big hurry, you might want to wait a few days. Trimming irritates the skin a bit, because the hair ends are blunt and scratchy when they used to be tapered and smooth.

2. Unlike the instructions for shaving your pussy with a razor, I do not recommend bathing first to soften the hairs. You do not want them soft for an electric shaver. I shave every morning before my shower (unless I’m going to the gym, then I shave before I leave–I’m immodest, but I’m not up to shaving my pussy in public!) and then again at bedtime. Electric shaving doesn’t get as close, but I still spend less time shaving twice a day with a shaver than I would doing it once a day with a razor.

3. For the mons, do this standing in front of a full length mirror. You want the skin pulled taut, and the mons will be crunched up if you are sitting. Put your free hand on your belly just above the hairy part and pull up to tighten the skin. Then shave. It will take multiple strokes over the same area, especially if you are coarse and hairy like me. It also won’t get as close the first time as it will after you get used to it. Stand with your legs apart so you can get the crease between abdomen and thigh.

4. For the labia, you’ll want your makeup mirror. Find a comfortable place to sit with your knees bent and legs spread. On the floor leaning against the wall is good, as is a big comfy chair, if there’s enough room for the mirror. Pull a lamp nearby — you need light.

5. Now comes the fun part — shaving all those hills and hollows. I have a hard time getting the place just above the clit where the labia come together. Take it slow and easy till you get used to it. Pull the skin taut and shave against the grain. If you can manage it, a pillow under your ass and some cheek spreading can enable you to shave your anus.

6. Aftercare is important. Now you can take that shower or bath and wash off all those little hairs. Use a good exfoliant on your shaven bits. This will pull off the dead skin and help prevent and treat ingrown hairs. I have a major problem with these — the hairs just want to grow along under the surface of the skin. Scrubbing the skin helps free them.

7. For those really stubborn hairs, you’ll have to tweeze them. I’ve heard there are girls who tweeze their entire pussy. If I was to maintain my baldness with that method, that’s all I would have time to do all day. These must be women with sparser hair than me.

8. Apply a good lotion or cold cream to soothe the area–it will be irritated the first few times you do it, and it feels good when you rub it in. Or ask your lover to do it.

9. What about wet wipes? That’s for after you pee. When you actually have hair down there, it works as a funnel to direct the urine down in a nice little stream without getting the rest of you wet. A smooth pussy is deficient in this. The urinary opening is between the inner labia, below the clit. The urine comes out, and instead of being funneled down and away, it runs along the skin. It gets the labia wet. It gets the ass wet. It will even get the thighs wet. Having bum wipes on the back of the toilet (and yes, I took a box of them to work to sit on the toilet there), lets you tidy yourself up afterwards.

10. After all that work, you deserve a reward. And we all know what that reward should be: Cunnilingus!

She’s not making light of the practical problems, but she’s tackled them with a scientific mind and come up with an entire suite of strategies to minimize them. Bravo!

Oh What a Weekend

From DeeGee Girl we have tales of wild weekends and at least two threesomes, one of which she herself compares to those stories in Penthouse Forum. An entertaining read to be sure:

We were all in the middle of our menage a trois, languidly lying in bed. I decided that it was time to deep throat JR. I moved between his legs and took his hard cock all the way into my throat and slowly started fucking him with my mouth. My pal moved to kiss him deeply at the same time, muffling his moans. I moved my hand out to play with her pussy at the same time which caused her to start moaning.

At some point she got up and walked over to get a 10 inch dildo from my toy bag. She came back to bed, got on her knees, put the dildo on the bed and started fucking it while she watched me blow JR. JR opened his eyes and looked over at her and almost blew his load into my mouth.

A Tale of Two Cities

I liked San Francisco well enough when I lived there for a couple of years. However, this story reminds me that, as a geeky broke straight boy with no motorcycle, I missed out on some of its more signal charms. True fact: the most exciting thing I ever touched on Ocean Beach was some sea glass. I like better the sound of this San Francisco:

She headed north on Franklin and I wondered where we were going. When she took a left onto Geary I realized she was headed for the beach and not either of our apartments. That was fine with me a little shiver went through me at the vision of being caught by a park ranger while her head was between my legs.

She must have brought other women here, I thought, when we stepped onto the sand and I saw that she had chosen a spot that was sheltered from the wind. When we had arrived she had opened up one of her saddlebags and pulled out a blanket, and she spread that out for us now. The air was warm, but maybe it was just that my whole body felt as though it was desperate for her touch. We both kicked off our shoes.

She sat, and pulled me down with her. Then she reached over, opened my jacket, and both of her hands went to my breasts….

Thanks to Crystal at Exposed for sharing this and lots of other stories.

Lady Liberty, Slut and Proud

Dirty Whore doesn’t use the word “slut” the way the assholes in the SoCal porn business do…and that’s a good thing:

First, a hearty bravo to the gentleman who wrote the following in an e-mail to me today, “If the freedom to comport yourself in the way that makes you happy is sluthood, then Lady Liberty should always be portrayed on her back with her legs in the air.” Hear hear! And don’t even get me started on uses for that torch.

Any graphics designers out there who can make her a graphic?

Suspect in Feminist Circles

Mike Snider, a modern (as in, currently alive) poet who actually writes poems real humans can read and enjoy, says that any straight man who writes about sex is automatically suspect in some feminist circles. Yeah, but that’s hardly surprising, since sex itself (at least, sex involving a penis and any female orifice) is automatically suspect in some feminist circles. It may be that Andrea Dworkin never actually wrote the exact words “All sex is rape” — but she wrote some things that sure suggested she felt that way, and the idea has surprisingly persistent “legs” in, as Mike Snider put it, “some (not all) feminist circles.”

But that’s OK. Somehow it doesn’t seem likely that too many Dworkinites are loyal readers of ErosBlog.

Anyway, it bothers Mike that “there’s not much explicitly sexual poetry by men about sex with women.” Fortunately, he’s doing something about it:

We woke entangled in new love’s designs
And scrapped a plan to breakfast in the park….

Thank you, Mike.

It’s For Science

Here’s a funny story about a guy who decided to test the whole “ribbed for her pleasure” advertising claim. Notwithstanding his lady’s lukewarm enthusiasm for the experiment:

“Now get on your knees. I’ll have to enter you from behind, so you can’t see what I’m doing.”

“I can just close my eyes and picture Antonio Banderas as usual.”

“Ha ha.”

I had her on her knees, ass up in front of me, legs apart, and entryway poised at an angle of least resistance. Despite all the arguing, this was, and shall always be, a sight that quickly gets me… attentive. I rolled the first condom on, a ribbed one. I called out, as cold and clinical as I could, “This is Exhibit A.”

Proposed New Year’s Resolution: Say These Things More Often

Shocking Shell offers a list of things she says you can only say at Thanksgiving. Here are three to give you the, er, flavor:

2. Tying the legs together keeps the inside moist.
11. Just spread the legs open and stuff it in.
14. You still have a little bit on your chin.

Another Unsung Benefit of Globalization

Mexican porn comics? Who knew? Nobody tells us Norteamericanos the stuff we need to know. Until now:

Pocket-sized comic books called historietas have been available for decades on every corner newsstand, but in the past seven years they have been overrun by a fresh and lurid genre that’s part noir melodrama, part Tijuana bible–what Mexico City writer Alex Giardino dubs the “ghetto libretto.”

These nasty funnies are less graphic than their Japanese counterparts but make up in operatic depravity what they lack in plumbing. Page through Heat Between Her Legs, Secret Temptations, or Carnal Sins, at the Las Americas supermarket on East Lake Street, and you’ll find every variant of anguish on the characters’ faces. My favorite artist, who signs his name Galvez and inks boldly with crude strokes, tells sweaty tales of poor women who endure class browbeating, male predation, incest, and long nights of hot, guilty sex–all before hacking their tormentors to pieces.

Musical Insult

“Madam, you have between your legs an instrument capable of giving pleasure to thousands, and all you can do is scratch at it.”

–attributed to British conductor Sir Thomas Beecham, speaking to a lady cellist

This cunning slander brought to you courtesy of The Safety Valve.

The Word For The Day Is Legs…

…so let’s go back to my flat and spread the word.

Sorry. Really. Apparently those horny Brits have invented new lows in the bad pickup lines game. Here’s another:

“How do you like your eggs in the morning – fertilised?”

Kids, don’t try this at home. You will be slapped, and die a virgin.