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The Sex Blog Of Record
Friday, November 22nd, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Jess has a warning for wives about irresponsible drinking. Apparently too much alcohol makes her anally-amorous, but her sphincter has morning-after regrets:
Transcript:
Alcohol makes us slutty! Drank too much last night. Got a little too slutty, with my own husband. But every time I tell him: “We’re not doing that again for a while, that is a special occasion thing, because it fucking hurts the next day.”
And he’s always like “Yeah, I know. It’s always your idea.”
And I’m like “Oh, yeah. I asked for it, right?”
No, I literally do. I literally ask for it every time I have a few drinks, and I back up to him like a cat in a heat. I practically yowel at him! Then I’m the one who pays for it the next day.
Drink responsibly.
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Wednesday, July 17th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Whilst rummaging through one of my older backup folders, I happened upon an original sex story that was posted by its author to alt.sex.stories.moderated back in March of 2000. Because I saved it (for some long-forgotten reason that no doubt boils down to “I’m a data hoarder”) in its original Usenet email-like format with all headers, I’ll link to a copy of that .txt file for archival benefit, and for the edification of readers who were not around back then and may never have seen such a thing.
The story is titled “The Barn” and it’s by Paulinus Fang (aka “The Dirty Dentist”). A quick search of Google, Bing, Duck Duck Go, and Yandex turns up no trace of this story left anywhere on the searchable/living web, but the original ASSM posting contains a .sig/tagline with a link to Mr. Fang’s story page on Lycos. (Amazingly, the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine has a pretty good 2001 copy of his page, which is why I was able to drop that link.)
I’ll also post the story below, with fair warning that it’s a heavy BDSM/kidnap story that presents as noncon (which is to say, it reads as if it were depicting kidnapping and rape). Its original tagging includes a “NC? anal” tag, and that question mark is significant. As was common in those times, a plot twist late in the story implies, but does not 100% establish, the consent that initially seems absent from the text. In this, the story is truly an authentic artifact of its time and place. If you don’t want to read a story like that, now is your time to stop. (The full set of tags included in the original posting looks very incomplete to modern eyes; it was in its entirety “nc? anal, bdsm”.)
The Barn
The candles flickered as the air currents moved, stirred by the swing of the girl suspended by her wrists from the hook long ago driven into the beams of the old barn.
She waited, limply, no longer willing to try to break the bonds linking her to the ancient structure.
Few thoughts passed through her brain, her mind long since blank through deprivation of her senses. The blindfold smelt of him, the one who had dragged her to the barn, bound her and hung her like curing ham. She remembered it being placed around her face, the red pattern blurring as it passed closer to her, then only the dull light passing through the cloth.
She heard footsteps in the edge of her senses: was he back? What would happen? A sound, something hitting the floor, yet what? She did not know, would never know.
Hands touched her face, tracing slowly down her cheek below the blindfold, a finger nail scraping slowly down her neck. She shivered, shrank back, yet could not because of her bindings.
The hands were gone, silence, then they returned to her neck, touching her dress, two hands in the neck of the simple cotton dress. The fingers tightened then moved apart, stripping the dress from her back, tearing textiles asunder. The shriek of the cloth, destroyed, was the only noise.
The cooler air caressed her back, chilling the beads of sweat breaking her skin. The wait, the dread, the thoughts of what could happen, what price he would extract from her, were almost unbearable.
She felt the warmth of his breath on her ear before he spoke, softly to her. “You shouldn’t be here, you know that, don’t you?” he hissed. She swallowed, unable to speak through her dry mouth, but nodded her head.
“Nobody knows that you’re here,” he paused, the breath returned to her other ear, “you’re just a missing person. I can do as I please.” She felt him move away from her. Her ears strained for sounds indicating his intentions, but she heard nothing, only silence.
She arched her back, wracked with pain. Her brain screamed with shock yet was unable to register the site of the pain. After a few seconds the burn shot across her shoulders, followed instantly by sweat on her top lip. A second bolt of pain across her buttocks caused her to jerk again, then relax. She swung slowly, revolving on her rope with the tips of her toes touching the dusty floor. Then silence.
Braced for the next blow, she waited; the seconds passed slowly, becoming minutes, still waiting. Would she be released? Would she be free again? When would he strike her again? What had he used on her?
Still hanging by her wrists with the ache in her arms returning after becoming overridden by the two blows, she felt his presence. She thought how strange it was that she should become so tuned in to her environment even when deprived of the use of her eyes.
His hands were on her hips, turning her on the end of the rope, holding her firmly. Was this when he would finally cut her down? No! She felt his warm, naked body press against her from the rear, his fingers searching between her buttocks, touching the delicate flesh, the paper thin skin in her cleft, the thicker feel of his penis, the blunt end pushing, probing, searching. She clenched her buttocks, determined to stop his entry but could feel his fist, wrapped around his penis, holding it in position against her anus, his knuckles pushed into her firm buttocks. He pushed, slowly, steadily against her anus. Unable to resist the force her anus stretched until, with a sudden pop, he was inside her, his groan drowned out by her cry.
The sharp stinging of her anus increased as he entered her, turned to a burning, then eased as he slid in, his penis disappearing as he pushed. She felt full, full enough to burst, slightly uncomfortable with the fullness yet he unexpectedly did not start to thrust, he just waited with his penis buried deep in her rectum. The tears soaked into the blindfold.
After a few minutes he started to move slowly, backwards and forwards, sawing into her, deeply, his breathing rate increasing audibly behind her. She was powerless to offer any resistance, with her hands tied above her head and her feet hardly touching the ground. He stopped; she felt him adjust his position, then holding her firmly he started to move her forwards and backwards, pulling her further onto his penis, then pushing her away: it was as if he were masturbating with her anus. The sensation of fullness changed with her swinging motion on the rope. The rate increased until her held her firmly against him, his penis jerking in her bowels and he shot deeply into her. He pushed her forward, and his penis withdrew from her anus, the semen leaking out.
The girl was left hanging for a few moments, then without warning she collapsed to the floor, tasting dust in her mouth from the barn. She could feel the severed rope around her wrists being untied, as the pressure was released she felt the blood rush into her hands, the tingling pins and needles adding to her day of discomfort. As feeling returned, she reached up and slid the blindfold up her forehead. The light bursting into her eyes caused her to close them. Slowly she squinted though eyes half closed, adjusting to the light, trying to focus on her captor who stood over by a table, packing a riding crop and rope into a bag. He turned, saw her looking at him and spoke again in his soft voice. “Is it next weekend that we are going to visit your parents?”
And there you have it: an authentic sample of BDSM porn the way it was, back at the dawn of the new century!
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Tuesday, June 25th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a two-stanza limerick from 1941 that relies heavily on the supposed banality of married sex:
There was a young man with a prick
which into his wife he would stick
every morning and night
if it stood up alright —
not a very remarkable trick.
His wife had a nice little cunt
that was hairy, and soft in the front.
With this she would fuck him
or sometimes she’d suck him…
a charming, if commonplace, stunt.
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Friday, June 14th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Mom and Dad are living their best life in their empty-nest. Do yourselves a favor, kids: knock!
The Nymph has an adult niece she half-raised like her own daughter who has this terrible habit of just walking in like she owns the place. (To be fair, she did grow up in this house.) Anyway, she’s gotten several eyefuls of nudity that caused her to complain bitterly. Sympathy levels are low. Fuckin’ knock!
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Sunday, October 1st, 2023 -- by Bacchus
Someone sent me this:
It’s captioned “my husband suffers from a disease called wishful thinking.” On one level, this is a comedy video that they made together, so I’m not gonna pick on these actual internet funny-people for enacting a joke about a stereotype: the “no” wife who makes fun of her horny husband for wanting “too much” sexually. But I’m easily seduced into meta-analysis. I start thinking about the structure of the joke, and about the stereotypes the joke invokes. Which stereotypical spouse’s thinking is more wishful, truly? His, for wanting something slightly risky and sexually adventurous from his until-death-do-us-part ride-or-die life partner? Or hers, for assuming she can count on that lifetime of love and loyalty and commitment from him while rejecting and lightly mocking his sexual overtures?
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Sunday, March 7th, 2021 -- by Bacchus
There’s a weird psychological flaw in human memory called the Doorway Effect. It often makes us forget our purpose for entering a room, during the process of walking through the doorway. This enterprising fellow hopes it offers him an opportunity to exercise the power of suggestion:
Cartoonist not known.
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Wednesday, April 28th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
I saw a tweet link to (a Facebook post to a useless “don’t go onto the wild internetz!” warning page to) this blog post at Pharyngula regarding some marital sex advice from a Christian mega-church pastor who conducts marriage seminars with a “comedic approach”. And I’ll grant you that there’s some comedy gold in this paragraph quoted with disapproval by Pharyngula:
As I said, sometimes sex is just sex; it’s what you do when you are married. Just like cleaning the toilet is what you do to keep your house clean…and I bet you don’t have this great desire or huge emotional connection to scrubbing the porcelain! You do it because it needs to be done and that’s the way it is with married sex… it does need to be done! It’s the glue that God gave us to bond us to one another. The bible is very clear that it is your responsibility as a spouse.
What’s weird about this is the “worst analogy ever” aspect. The Christian reputation for being anti-sex is not going to be refuted by by an analogy that compares married sex to cleaning toilets. Married sex, after all, is the only kind Christians approve of; and if that’s supposed to be an unpleasant duty, what other conclusion are we to draw?
And if all you saw was the Pharyngula paragraph instead of reading the whole article, it would be understandable for you to walk away shaking your head and muttering “Wow, this bigwig pastor really does hate sex, he thinks it’s a filthy unpleasant marital obligation, his poor wife!”
I concede to you that my first thought — which I have not yet entirely discarded — is that this pastor must indeed have some deep ambivalence about sex in order to even conceive of such an unpleasant analogy.
And yet, and yet, I try to be fair. And it turns out, he was at pains to explain that his analogy was about the “necessary duty” part of the toilet cleaning task, not its inherent unpleasantness. From the next paragraph, which Pharyngula did not quote:
Don’t feel badly if you aren’t overwhelmed by all the over-the-moon feelings and passion ahead of time. There is nothing wrong with you. If you can enjoy sex once you start and have a good time, that’s all that matters. Just break the mindset that you won’t do it unless you feel like it. Let not your hearts be troubled. Just enjoy the deal without all the fuss and worry over the desire and emotion.
That rescues him, a little. He’s not saying that “spouses” (of course he means “wives”, but he’s savvy enough to encode his wifely duty message in language that’s beyond gender-reproach) have a duty to have sex even when it’s a nasty and unpleasant job.
Thus does context matter. The toilet analogy remains telling, but in its fuller context, he’s not actually saying “Suck it up, Buttercup, and lick his dirty toilet no matter how much it makes you retch.” He’s saying something like “If you can enjoy licking his toilet, you ought to get after it pretty regular, instead of waiting for the perfect fairy-tale toilet-licking moments that aren’t gonna happen so often when you’re married.” Or, to give him the words he actually uses instead of my sardonic paraphrase: “After you’ve been together for a bunch of years, not every time is going to be the ‘ground shaking, heaven bending down to kiss the earth, lights exploding from the sky and angels singing the hallelujah chorus’ encounter!”
And y’know, I think he’s actually right when he suggests that sex in marriage is necessary. Oh, not for everybody; if I said that, the first comment after this post would be “My wife and I have been married for 23 years and we don’t need sex any more; we love each other deeply and have a fulfilling marriage even though we haven’t fucked since 1996.” It happens, sure. And sometimes when lightning strikes your dog, he doesn’t die. But it remains an oft-told tale that sex declines in marriage, and when it does, the marriage is over (or in horrible trouble) soon after that. Encouraging married people to keep having sex even after some of the initial passion (or, as he rather disturbingly calls it, “all this desire and emotion nonsense”) has faded? It’s not actually a completely crazy idea.
Tuesday, December 22nd, 2009 -- by Bacchus
This sets off all my “is probably an internet hoax” filters. But it’s funny even if it’s not true:
When a man in the UK was asked to be the best man at his friend’s wedding, he was touched. So touched, that he promised not to pull any pranks before or during the wedding. After the wedding though, that’s another story.
This man, who is choosing to stay anonymous, has set up this Twitter account for the sole purpose of automatically tweeting when the newlyweds are having sex. I’m not kidding. Read the entire tweet stream from the bottom up if you want the full story. But basically, this guy was watching his friend’s house while they went on their honeymoon and he placed a device under their mattress. This device…is a pressure-sensitive pad that tweets out when sexual activity starts, when it ends, the force of the “action,” and a “frenzy” rating.
High tech voyeurism! And not the last such device we’ll be hearing about, I’m sure…
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