No prizes for guessing who wrote what.
Chicks With Dicks 2
2 hours ago
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Poet And The Cynic
I knew it was a mistake to put up a whiteboard in the kitchen. The idea was to write down little memos and stuff to help us be a little more organised in our daily life. I should have known that it would attract the attentions of the local grafitti artists. i.e. 19 year-old Son and 16 year-old Daughter.
No prizes for guessing who wrote what.
No prizes for guessing who wrote what.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Our Little Piece Of Heaven
If this summer turns out to be anything like last, or the one before that, then I will be mentioning our summerhouse rather a lot over the coming months. Most of our weekends are spent there in the summer and therefore it is the setting for a large proportion of the sex we enjoy in this half of the year, beginning at Easter. So a little background is in order.
I would hate people to think that we were ludicrously wealthy because we own a summerhouse. We’re not. In this country a great many ordinary families have one. For all it’s faults, this is a very equal society: There are very few obscenely rich people, and no grindingly poor. The standard of living is good for everyone and there is very little unemployment. With a population of about that of Greater London and a huge coastline there is also a lot of beach to go round.
The original concept of a summerhouse was of little more than a glorified bathing hut that was within the financial reach of most people. You bought a plot of land and built the thing yourself. Often there was no running water, lighting was by oil lamps, it would be fitted out with bunk beds and maybe a folding table and chairs. Nowadays your top-of the range summerhouse might have a fitted designer kitchen, en-suite bathrooms, outside hot-tub and satellite TV, especially if it to be let out to, predominantly, German holidaymakers. Ours is somewhere in between these two extremes. While the term ’ramshackle’ would be less than fair, the only way it is ever going to make it into the pages of ’Homes and Gardens’ is as the ’before’ part of a before and after extreme makeover. But it has running water (and not just down the walls), elecktrickery, a wood burning stove to keep us warm on chilly nights and a fridge to keep our beer cold on scorching days. It has a covered terrace outside where we can eat our breakfast within sight and sound of the sea (naked if we feel like it) and a big grassy lawn where the kids used to kick a football around or play on the swings I built when they were younger, but where now, hidden from prying eyes by the surrounding pine trees, Heather and I can make love under an open sky or nibble strawberries and lap champagne from each other’s bodies under a million stars on a midsummer’s night. It also has a very practical stable door that Heather can bend over so that we can fuck while enjoying the view. It is our ’Shed-On-Sea’, our little weekend retreat.
I would hate people to think that we were ludicrously wealthy because we own a summerhouse. We’re not. In this country a great many ordinary families have one. For all it’s faults, this is a very equal society: There are very few obscenely rich people, and no grindingly poor. The standard of living is good for everyone and there is very little unemployment. With a population of about that of Greater London and a huge coastline there is also a lot of beach to go round.
The original concept of a summerhouse was of little more than a glorified bathing hut that was within the financial reach of most people. You bought a plot of land and built the thing yourself. Often there was no running water, lighting was by oil lamps, it would be fitted out with bunk beds and maybe a folding table and chairs. Nowadays your top-of the range summerhouse might have a fitted designer kitchen, en-suite bathrooms, outside hot-tub and satellite TV, especially if it to be let out to, predominantly, German holidaymakers. Ours is somewhere in between these two extremes. While the term ’ramshackle’ would be less than fair, the only way it is ever going to make it into the pages of ’Homes and Gardens’ is as the ’before’ part of a before and after extreme makeover. But it has running water (and not just down the walls), elecktrickery, a wood burning stove to keep us warm on chilly nights and a fridge to keep our beer cold on scorching days. It has a covered terrace outside where we can eat our breakfast within sight and sound of the sea (naked if we feel like it) and a big grassy lawn where the kids used to kick a football around or play on the swings I built when they were younger, but where now, hidden from prying eyes by the surrounding pine trees, Heather and I can make love under an open sky or nibble strawberries and lap champagne from each other’s bodies under a million stars on a midsummer’s night. It also has a very practical stable door that Heather can bend over so that we can fuck while enjoying the view. It is our ’Shed-On-Sea’, our little weekend retreat.
We bought it in 1988, while we were still living in UK. We were over here on holiday, staying with Heather’s parents as we always did and were using their summerhouse during the week while they were at work. Heather was great with child at the time and when, as a result of a chance conversation, we heard of a summerhouse nearby that the owner was considering selling but hadn’t got round to putting on the market, we jumped at the chance. It would give us a place of our own so that we didn’t have to rely on the hospitality of others, especially now as there were to be three of us or more in future.
The vendor was an acquaintance of Heather’s parents, she had recently been widowed and with her children grown up and with summerhouses of their own, she wanted to sell up and use some of the proceeds to go on a cruise. The house was built in the 60s by her late husband. He was a truck driver and I’m sure a very good one but perhaps he ought to have stuck to truck driving and used the overtime he earned to pay a builder instead of trying to build it himself, because he clearly built a little hut first and then added more bits on, little by little. To be fair, what we paid for was the value of the land it stands on and considering that the house has stood these last 19 years with hardly any money being spent on it we’ve done pretty well out of it. While we were still living in UK it even paid for itself: We used to holiday there for a fortnight at Easter and a fortnight in August. The rest of the time it was let out and although we couldn’t command top whack for it, we made enough for it to earn it’s keep. These days we wouldn’t dream of letting it out to strangers. It’s only our bestest friends and family that get to stay there.
In common with very many summerhouses not in the top notch luxury class, it is furnished with stuff that has been replaced at home but is still too good to throw out. In our case this is true of the dining table and chairs, the sofas, the television, the double bed, the fridge, the cooker, the microwave and the wood burning stove.
The reason why we haven’t spent anything on improvements since we got the place is that once we start, I know there’s going to be no end to it. We worked this out some years ago when Heather complained that the worktop in the kitchen was the wrong height. Well, if we were going to have a new kitchen put in, we wouldn’t want it where it is now, which would mean rearranging the bathroom. Also, while we were at it, it would be better if our bedroom was at the front of the house so that it could catch the morning sun. Add to this the fact that the flooring is just linoleum laid on concrete, which is cracking anyway, none of the windows are double-glazed, the only insulation in the outside walls and ceiling is bundles of old newspaper (from which we can date pretty accurately when the place was built) and it really needs a new roof and you can see that by the time we were finished we might just as well have pulled the whole thing down and started again. One day we will, but we have to admit that the old place has it’s own special cosy charm.
The truth is, we’re quite attached to it just the way it is.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Perspectives
Much though I would have liked to have pinned Heather up against the wall and plant my face on hers until she was fighting for breath when I got home last night, my plan was rather thwarted by our Senior Asistant in the business, Lynne, still being there. Very dedicated is Lynne.
In the end there was no big dramatic reconciliation, we just sat glancing sheepishly at each other across the dinner table, both embarrassed by the way things had turned out. We neither of us mentioned the dramas of the previous 24 hours but it wasn’t as if we were choosing to ignore the elephant in the room: The elephant had simply wandered off somewhere else.
Then, this morning, we got an e-mail from China which put the whole thing in perspective:
There is very good friend of the family, someone who has known Heather since childhood and who has kept in touch ever since. Her and her family are often invited to our family occasions so they’ve become almost like family. Her and her husband went to China on holiday just before Easter but, just a few days in, the husband fell ill. Things went from bad to worse and eventually he had to undergo an 8 hour operation to attempt to repair a major haemorrhage. The e-mail was to let us know that he was still on life-support some three days after the operation, that he hadn’t regained consciousness and that the doctors believed that he wasn’t likely to.
Although their emergency medical cover has paid for the hospital stay, interpreters and for the immediate family to fly out to be with him, it does not cover the cost of an air-ambulance to bring him home. The family is having to gather around him in an open public ward (The Chinese don’t do private rooms, it seems) surrounded by strangers speaking a language they don't understand and who don’t understand them while the hard decisions have to be taken.
This puts our own stupid little problems into a different light. Life is fragile and too short to waste any of the precious time we are granted with our loved ones in fighting or point-scoring. We should be celebrating life and each other instead.
The other lessons from this are equally important: Look after your body better. With a history of high blood pressure and overweight, this was apparently just waiting to happen, the blood vessel could have burst at any time. On the way to the shops, driving home from work or anywhere. The fact that it happened on the other side of the world means that the family is being put through a doubly awful experience.
Last but not least: Get proper emergency medical insurance when travelling to foreign parts. Whatever you do, make sure you can be repatriated if the unthinkable should happen.
In the end there was no big dramatic reconciliation, we just sat glancing sheepishly at each other across the dinner table, both embarrassed by the way things had turned out. We neither of us mentioned the dramas of the previous 24 hours but it wasn’t as if we were choosing to ignore the elephant in the room: The elephant had simply wandered off somewhere else.
Then, this morning, we got an e-mail from China which put the whole thing in perspective:
There is very good friend of the family, someone who has known Heather since childhood and who has kept in touch ever since. Her and her family are often invited to our family occasions so they’ve become almost like family. Her and her husband went to China on holiday just before Easter but, just a few days in, the husband fell ill. Things went from bad to worse and eventually he had to undergo an 8 hour operation to attempt to repair a major haemorrhage. The e-mail was to let us know that he was still on life-support some three days after the operation, that he hadn’t regained consciousness and that the doctors believed that he wasn’t likely to.
Although their emergency medical cover has paid for the hospital stay, interpreters and for the immediate family to fly out to be with him, it does not cover the cost of an air-ambulance to bring him home. The family is having to gather around him in an open public ward (The Chinese don’t do private rooms, it seems) surrounded by strangers speaking a language they don't understand and who don’t understand them while the hard decisions have to be taken.
This puts our own stupid little problems into a different light. Life is fragile and too short to waste any of the precious time we are granted with our loved ones in fighting or point-scoring. We should be celebrating life and each other instead.
The other lessons from this are equally important: Look after your body better. With a history of high blood pressure and overweight, this was apparently just waiting to happen, the blood vessel could have burst at any time. On the way to the shops, driving home from work or anywhere. The fact that it happened on the other side of the world means that the family is being put through a doubly awful experience.
Last but not least: Get proper emergency medical insurance when travelling to foreign parts. Whatever you do, make sure you can be repatriated if the unthinkable should happen.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Stupid
Oh well, that was that weekend. All in all we had a great time. No work, lots of play, no kids (at least for protracted periods), too much good food.
Great sex. I mean, the stuff of legends.
And then on the Monday, the last day of our Easter break, it all went horribly wrong:
I’m going to try very hard not to turn this into a prolonged whinge, there’s nothing more tedious or gut-squirmingly embarrasing than reading someone trying to justify their particular standpoint in a dispute and grizzling on about how unfairly they’ve been treated by the other party. Just like sex, it takes two to have a row. I’m telling the story as a cautionary tale. What not to do, how not to handle a disagreement…
I had been feeling rough all of Sunday evening, but when we went to bed we still had sex. Really good sex as it happens. I’ll post about it soon enough but right now I don’t feel that I can. I fell asleep soon afterwards but woke again at about 3am with a screaming headache. Every time I closed my eyes I saw a mad kaleidoscope of brightly-coloured cars, trains, aeroplanes and fantastical creatures all rushing towards me. It wasn’t a dream, more a delerium, recurring every time I tried to sleep. It was a cold night, down to -7 and we had the wood-burning stove in the lounge stoked well up. I managed to convince myself I was suffering from Carbon Monoxide poisoning and from then on sleep was impossible for fear of never waking again. Worse still, I had to stand guard over Heather, sleeping peacefully beside me, to make sure she carried on breathing. These are the mad thoughts that come to you in the middle of the night.
At last my restlessness woke Heather, just as the watery dawn showed through rents in the cloud. She took care of me, listened to my ramblings, made me a cup of coffee and bought me Paracetomol and Ibuprofen. Despite the cold outside I opened the window beside the bed and, as the sweet refreshing outside air tumbled across the window sill I drank it in like nectar and fell asleep at once.
I woke, refreshed, at ten. I made the tea, warmed the breakfast buns in the oven and did the previous night’s washing up all while Heather slept. It had turned out to be a beautiful morning and the crisp white blanket of snow on the lawn was rapidly disappearing. This was our last day down here. We’d have a leisurely breakfast, make love, go for a walk down by the sea then come back in time to make love again, pack up and go home in time to cook the kids their tea and get daughter back to school.
But Heather had urgent business over at her parent’s summerhouse, just five minutes walk from ours, plus there was some leftover food there from the meal we had shared with the rest of the family on Easter Sunday. I wan’t keen on going over to the In-Laws again but it didn’t matter, I had my trusty Strat with me and there were some riffs I wanted to practice. We’d pick up where we left off when she got back.
She was longer than I had expected, but she had brought cake back with her. She made coffee and sat down on the other sofa. Now, there are a hundred and one things that I could have done at this point. I could have taken her hand and intertwined our fingers. I could have stood over her and kissed her face, looking up into mine, as she reclined on that sofa. I could have stripped naked and slapped her cheek with my cock or ripped off her clothes as she lay there or led her by the hand into the bedroom.
I did none of those things. Instead, I did the worst possible thing. I listened to that nagging little demon of self-doubt that I never manage to bury quite deep enough. The one that manages to convince me, every so often, that sex is just something she lets me do to her to keep me happy. The one that convinced me now to wait for her to make the first move.
And then, for me, she did the worst possible thing. She picked up the paper and started to read it.
”See” cried my mischevious little imp in triumph ”She’d rather read the paper than have sex with you”. Disappointment turned to sullenness and like an idiot I just sat there and let it happen. By the end of the day we were barely speaking to each other. Heather thought I was angry with her for spending so much time at her parents’ (relations between me and her mother are often less than cordial) I became angry at her for misinterpreting the situation and failing to see what to me was blindingly obvious and for demonstrably not wanting sex with me. What had smouldered throughout most of the evening back home exploded into a full-blown row. Heather took herself off to have a long hot bath, the intention being, I believe, to soak her skin in fragrant oils and give herself to me as a peace offering. Unfortunately I failed to work this out and I assumed she had gone off to get out of my way, so I stayed out of hers until we finally went to bed.
There is a tired old maxim that you should never go to sleep on an argument. The corollary of that is that you should stay up and fight. By 2.30am, after a couple of hours of verbally tearing chunks out of each other she had had enough. She got out of bed and didn’t come back. At least not for a very long time. I was vaguely aware of her beside me again later but I have no idea of at what time.
We’ve hardly exchanged more than a couple of words today. When I get home I know that this whole thing could be resolved just by planting my lips firmly on hers as soon as I get in the door.
Trouble is, I don’t know if I can.
Great sex. I mean, the stuff of legends.
And then on the Monday, the last day of our Easter break, it all went horribly wrong:
I’m going to try very hard not to turn this into a prolonged whinge, there’s nothing more tedious or gut-squirmingly embarrasing than reading someone trying to justify their particular standpoint in a dispute and grizzling on about how unfairly they’ve been treated by the other party. Just like sex, it takes two to have a row. I’m telling the story as a cautionary tale. What not to do, how not to handle a disagreement…
I had been feeling rough all of Sunday evening, but when we went to bed we still had sex. Really good sex as it happens. I’ll post about it soon enough but right now I don’t feel that I can. I fell asleep soon afterwards but woke again at about 3am with a screaming headache. Every time I closed my eyes I saw a mad kaleidoscope of brightly-coloured cars, trains, aeroplanes and fantastical creatures all rushing towards me. It wasn’t a dream, more a delerium, recurring every time I tried to sleep. It was a cold night, down to -7 and we had the wood-burning stove in the lounge stoked well up. I managed to convince myself I was suffering from Carbon Monoxide poisoning and from then on sleep was impossible for fear of never waking again. Worse still, I had to stand guard over Heather, sleeping peacefully beside me, to make sure she carried on breathing. These are the mad thoughts that come to you in the middle of the night.
At last my restlessness woke Heather, just as the watery dawn showed through rents in the cloud. She took care of me, listened to my ramblings, made me a cup of coffee and bought me Paracetomol and Ibuprofen. Despite the cold outside I opened the window beside the bed and, as the sweet refreshing outside air tumbled across the window sill I drank it in like nectar and fell asleep at once.
I woke, refreshed, at ten. I made the tea, warmed the breakfast buns in the oven and did the previous night’s washing up all while Heather slept. It had turned out to be a beautiful morning and the crisp white blanket of snow on the lawn was rapidly disappearing. This was our last day down here. We’d have a leisurely breakfast, make love, go for a walk down by the sea then come back in time to make love again, pack up and go home in time to cook the kids their tea and get daughter back to school.
But Heather had urgent business over at her parent’s summerhouse, just five minutes walk from ours, plus there was some leftover food there from the meal we had shared with the rest of the family on Easter Sunday. I wan’t keen on going over to the In-Laws again but it didn’t matter, I had my trusty Strat with me and there were some riffs I wanted to practice. We’d pick up where we left off when she got back.
She was longer than I had expected, but she had brought cake back with her. She made coffee and sat down on the other sofa. Now, there are a hundred and one things that I could have done at this point. I could have taken her hand and intertwined our fingers. I could have stood over her and kissed her face, looking up into mine, as she reclined on that sofa. I could have stripped naked and slapped her cheek with my cock or ripped off her clothes as she lay there or led her by the hand into the bedroom.
I did none of those things. Instead, I did the worst possible thing. I listened to that nagging little demon of self-doubt that I never manage to bury quite deep enough. The one that manages to convince me, every so often, that sex is just something she lets me do to her to keep me happy. The one that convinced me now to wait for her to make the first move.
And then, for me, she did the worst possible thing. She picked up the paper and started to read it.
”See” cried my mischevious little imp in triumph ”She’d rather read the paper than have sex with you”. Disappointment turned to sullenness and like an idiot I just sat there and let it happen. By the end of the day we were barely speaking to each other. Heather thought I was angry with her for spending so much time at her parents’ (relations between me and her mother are often less than cordial) I became angry at her for misinterpreting the situation and failing to see what to me was blindingly obvious and for demonstrably not wanting sex with me. What had smouldered throughout most of the evening back home exploded into a full-blown row. Heather took herself off to have a long hot bath, the intention being, I believe, to soak her skin in fragrant oils and give herself to me as a peace offering. Unfortunately I failed to work this out and I assumed she had gone off to get out of my way, so I stayed out of hers until we finally went to bed.
There is a tired old maxim that you should never go to sleep on an argument. The corollary of that is that you should stay up and fight. By 2.30am, after a couple of hours of verbally tearing chunks out of each other she had had enough. She got out of bed and didn’t come back. At least not for a very long time. I was vaguely aware of her beside me again later but I have no idea of at what time.
We’ve hardly exchanged more than a couple of words today. When I get home I know that this whole thing could be resolved just by planting my lips firmly on hers as soon as I get in the door.
Trouble is, I don’t know if I can.
Sugasm #124
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #125? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.
This Week’s Picks
In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath“In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”
Just passing through“I twitched under her stare.”
Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon“Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
WP/PHP Guru?
Editor’s Choice
More Traveling…
More SugasmJoin the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Face - The Fall Of Eliot Spitzer
Let me clarify something…
On being a slut.
Regulating Prostitution and its various business models
Would You Pose Without Clothes?
Sex Humor
Lusty Leprechauns
BDSM & Fetish
Black Panties (a story)
Earning myself a spanking
A fun weekned
Goodness Gracious
HNT - Hidden Nipple Thursday
Riding the Wave
The Spiritual Significance of Spanking
Submissive?
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest Winners
Call for submissions: Theory and Practice
Dana DeArmond Stripped Of Her Name During Slave Training With Julie Night
Euphoric Tendencies - a review
Gianna Lynn Endures Water And Suffocation Bondage Underwater On Waterbondage.com
Get a Personal Shopper for Your Genitals
My First Review on Adult DVD Talk!
Pushers
San Francisco Fetish Ball 2008 Photos and Review
Erotic Writing and Experiences
A black shemale sucked my cock in Amsterdam
Captivating the college girl part one
Clandestine
Close Your Eyes
In His Pants
Leopard print: you just can’t beat it
Northern lights and sleepless nights
Wet Vagoo
You’re my pornstar (part 3)
Sex Advice
How Women Can Learn to Have an Orgasm with Intercourse
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Dahlia Grey by Andrew Blake
Exotic Jewel
Half-Nekkid in the Shower
Her Intentions Fall to the Floor
How do you like my cock?
Pornsaint Kimberly Kane
Spring Garden
This Week’s Picks
In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath“In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”
Just passing through“I twitched under her stare.”
Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon“Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
WP/PHP Guru?
Editor’s Choice
More Traveling…
More SugasmJoin the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Face - The Fall Of Eliot Spitzer
Let me clarify something…
On being a slut.
Regulating Prostitution and its various business models
Would You Pose Without Clothes?
Sex Humor
Lusty Leprechauns
BDSM & Fetish
Black Panties (a story)
Earning myself a spanking
A fun weekned
Goodness Gracious
HNT - Hidden Nipple Thursday
Riding the Wave
The Spiritual Significance of Spanking
Submissive?
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest Winners
Call for submissions: Theory and Practice
Dana DeArmond Stripped Of Her Name During Slave Training With Julie Night
Euphoric Tendencies - a review
Gianna Lynn Endures Water And Suffocation Bondage Underwater On Waterbondage.com
Get a Personal Shopper for Your Genitals
My First Review on Adult DVD Talk!
Pushers
San Francisco Fetish Ball 2008 Photos and Review
Erotic Writing and Experiences
A black shemale sucked my cock in Amsterdam
Captivating the college girl part one
Clandestine
Close Your Eyes
In His Pants
Leopard print: you just can’t beat it
Northern lights and sleepless nights
Wet Vagoo
You’re my pornstar (part 3)
Sex Advice
How Women Can Learn to Have an Orgasm with Intercourse
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Dahlia Grey by Andrew Blake
Exotic Jewel
Half-Nekkid in the Shower
Her Intentions Fall to the Floor
How do you like my cock?
Pornsaint Kimberly Kane
Spring Garden
Monday, March 24, 2008
What A Difference A Day Makes
We've just got back from our long weekend away at our summerhouse. Not so many words tonight, but a few pictures illustrating how we got all four seasons during the course of the weekend.
When we got there on Thursday we had a howling North Easterly gale which continued unbroken right through Friday night
Then Saturday was like this:
Followed by The promised snow on Sunday:
This morning it looked like this:
And this is how we left it:
Full report to follow when we've had time to unpack and get back into our routines...
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Weekend Starts Here
As far as this country is concerned, the easter break stretches from Thursday to Monday. Apart from 3 hours on Saturday morning I'm off work until Tuesday.
We're planning to head for the summerhouse for the first time this year if for no better reason than it needs a good spring clean and I might be compelled to wield my enormous chopper if the firewood situation gets critical.
Snowstorms are forecast for our part of the country on Friday, with overnight temperatures falling to -10!!!! ffs!!!!!. Still with any luck we might get snowed in. We'll get plenty of food, booze and firewood in and then it won't matter if they don't dig us out for a week or so!!
The kids are less enthusisastic about going down there. They've got their own agendas and that suits us fine although I suspect we'll be called upon to ferry them around at odd times.
So, an idyllic long weekend in prospect with no work, no worries, no customers and no kids.
Unfortunately, no internet either, so I'm not indulging in my (second) favourite activity for the next few days please bear with me.
If anybody needs us, we'll be here:
Sugasm #123
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #124? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
A Seven Letter Word for Flowers“I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin.”
Breakfast In Bed“I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly.”
Inked“How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
L.A. Bondage
Editor’s Choice
Male spankees and the female gaze
More Sugasm Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Blowing Cold
Catalina loves Fetish Friday Pictures
Corset Model Mz. Berlin Is Pin Up Fabulous In This Lovely Pink Corset
Dressed to the nines -HNT
Half-Nekkid with a Strap-OnHiroshima Circus
The Ideal Man (video)
Jelena Jensen
That Smile
Sex Advice
Pleasure Her With Pearls
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Balcony Fun - Repost
Caught Pt 3
A good time with the neighbor
The Hospital
My wife’s first bi-curious romp
Observations and Suggestions Upon Having Fucked Simultaneously Two Other Sex Bloggers
An Officer and a Gentleman…
Playing
Renewal
The Stranger’s Words
Technology-Foreplay-Sex
BDSM & Fetish
Bend me. break me. As long as I want you, baby, it’s alright.
Electrical Wire Spanking for Masturbating on the Job
Fantasies of a Shoe Store Slut
I Needed Reminding…A slave’s birthday weekend
A Writing Assignment: P1 - Our First Encounter
Sex Work
Last Night’s Phone and Camshow Recap
Spying On Sex Workers
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
All These Years
The Cam Lover prepares for Amsterdam sex tour
The great myth of the “Venus corset”
I’m Submissive, Not A Doormat
Lost and Found
Spitzer vs. Clinton: Bill got it for free
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy
Get Paid for Your Orgasms!
Ivy League Confessional: Naked Parties at Yale
Madison Young In A Submissive Latex Femdom Scene On Wired Pussy
My New Thing
Sara Faye And Alexa Jordan Get Abducted During A Rave And Forced To Fuck Each Other
This Week’s Picks
A Seven Letter Word for Flowers“I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin.”
Breakfast In Bed“I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly.”
Inked“How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself
L.A. Bondage
Editor’s Choice
Male spankees and the female gaze
More Sugasm Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Blowing Cold
Catalina loves Fetish Friday Pictures
Corset Model Mz. Berlin Is Pin Up Fabulous In This Lovely Pink Corset
Dressed to the nines -HNT
Half-Nekkid with a Strap-OnHiroshima Circus
The Ideal Man (video)
Jelena Jensen
That Smile
Sex Advice
Pleasure Her With Pearls
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Balcony Fun - Repost
Caught Pt 3
A good time with the neighbor
The Hospital
My wife’s first bi-curious romp
Observations and Suggestions Upon Having Fucked Simultaneously Two Other Sex Bloggers
An Officer and a Gentleman…
Playing
Renewal
The Stranger’s Words
Technology-Foreplay-Sex
BDSM & Fetish
Bend me. break me. As long as I want you, baby, it’s alright.
Electrical Wire Spanking for Masturbating on the Job
Fantasies of a Shoe Store Slut
I Needed Reminding…A slave’s birthday weekend
A Writing Assignment: P1 - Our First Encounter
Sex Work
Last Night’s Phone and Camshow Recap
Spying On Sex Workers
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
All These Years
The Cam Lover prepares for Amsterdam sex tour
The great myth of the “Venus corset”
I’m Submissive, Not A Doormat
Lost and Found
Spitzer vs. Clinton: Bill got it for free
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy
Get Paid for Your Orgasms!
Ivy League Confessional: Naked Parties at Yale
Madison Young In A Submissive Latex Femdom Scene On Wired Pussy
My New Thing
Sara Faye And Alexa Jordan Get Abducted During A Rave And Forced To Fuck Each Other
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Marauding Turk
I stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs, surveying from the balcony the heaving mass of bodies in the hall of residence refrectory which, for one night only, had been transformed into the Freshers’ Disco.
Disco was perhaps a misnomer, for this was 1977 and Punk was jostling and snarling and shoving disco music out of popularity. The Stranglers competed with The Stylistics, The Boomtown Rats with the Bee Gees and then of course there were The Sex Pistols with their own tribute to Her Majesty in this her Jubilee year. In Upper Street, Islington, not a mile away from where we were, hopeful new bands were showcased every night at the Hope and Anchor.
I smiled to myself. There were easy pickings here, and so much choice. Shy girls-next-door, away from home for the first time. Naïve, unsure of themselves. Convent school girls; now they were always the worst, up for anything in their tight jeans and tighter sweaters. Small-town teen queens now little fish in a much bigger pool. All there waiting to be taken and given the experience of a lifetime at my hands. I’d already been eyeing up a few prospects over the last day or two but there was plenty of time, I’d be able to work my way through most of them by the end of term. The course I had chosen was equally attractive to men and women and the distribution was about 50:50. Fair enough. From what I’d seen of the other guys on the course there didn’t seem to be too much opposition although there was always the risk of predation from other courses where birds were in short supply, like civil engineering.
I descended the stairs slowly. Meaningfully. Looking to right and left until I located my target for tonight. Nothing too challenging to start with… There! Standing alone. Pale skin and long chestnut-coloured hair, looking awkward and out of place in her gingham dress and dark-rimmed glasses. I moved in.
”Dance with me?”
”Uh?”
”DANCE WITH ME!!”
It wasn’t a request, it was a command. And despite being shouted into my ear from a distance of about six inches it was still barely intelligible above the din of the crowded disco and it took a while for the message to penetrate the daydream I was enjoying. It took me completely by surprise; I hadn’t come to the disco to dance, I had come to stand by the wall, drink cheap gassy beer and watch the others dance in the hope that by the end of the evening I would be drunk enough to lose my inhibitions a little. And now, here was the girl who had caught my eye right from the first day physically dragging me out onto the floor and I was nowhere near drunk enough yet.
”I need you to rescue me” She explained. ”There’s a Turkish guy been pestering me all evening and I can’t get rid of him. I’ve just sent him off to buy me a drink but I want you to take me out for a dance until he gets back and then stay with me so he gets the message.”
Well, I’m not proud. I didn’t mind being used as a cock blocker by this damsel in distress. Anyway, she had a captivating smile and mischevious eyes and it was exhilerating to be dancing with her. Suddenly I had status in the room. I was with a girl.
The marauding Turk shot me a filthy glance as he handed over the drink but I stood my ground, moving in a little closer to my damsel. I suppose these days I might have been risking a glassing, but he retreated to find someone else. My job was completed, but we stayed together. Small talk was impossible so we just exchanged scraps of shouted conversation, nods and smiles. Eventually I thought I’d better offer her another drink.
”BEER, PLEASE” This was a relief. Beer was cheap.
”A HALF?”
”NO!!! A PINT. WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?” She laughed.
So she wants to play tough. So be it. I’d show her how to handle a pint.
I struggled back from the bar with two thick plastic glasses full of plastic beer and handed her one. I raised my own to my lips and, without taking my eyes off her, necked the pint down in one.
So did she.
She finished first, threw her glass to the ground in triumph and stamped on it with a shout. It exploded with a most satisfying bang and her eyes blazed fire. She’d put me in my place and serve me right. She’d staked out her territory; she was all woman, but nobody’s doormat. She wanted to be treated like a lady but she was a match for any man. I was captivated.
At one o clock sharp the music stopped and the lights came on. But we were nowhere near ready to finish partying, my damsel and I, and our little group of firm friends of all of three days acquaintance. About a dozen of us crowded into one of the little study bedrooms on the seventh floor. Someone brought some beer. My damsel volunteered some digestive biscuits that she had in her room. I volunteered to help her fetch them.
We didn't return to the party that night. We held our own party for two in her room. In her bed.
Just Heather and I.
This post was inspired by Heather, jogging my memory of the events of that night over 30 years ago. If you want to know the full, unexpurgated and slightly embarassing details and a bit more of the background have a look here.
Disco was perhaps a misnomer, for this was 1977 and Punk was jostling and snarling and shoving disco music out of popularity. The Stranglers competed with The Stylistics, The Boomtown Rats with the Bee Gees and then of course there were The Sex Pistols with their own tribute to Her Majesty in this her Jubilee year. In Upper Street, Islington, not a mile away from where we were, hopeful new bands were showcased every night at the Hope and Anchor.
I smiled to myself. There were easy pickings here, and so much choice. Shy girls-next-door, away from home for the first time. Naïve, unsure of themselves. Convent school girls; now they were always the worst, up for anything in their tight jeans and tighter sweaters. Small-town teen queens now little fish in a much bigger pool. All there waiting to be taken and given the experience of a lifetime at my hands. I’d already been eyeing up a few prospects over the last day or two but there was plenty of time, I’d be able to work my way through most of them by the end of term. The course I had chosen was equally attractive to men and women and the distribution was about 50:50. Fair enough. From what I’d seen of the other guys on the course there didn’t seem to be too much opposition although there was always the risk of predation from other courses where birds were in short supply, like civil engineering.
I descended the stairs slowly. Meaningfully. Looking to right and left until I located my target for tonight. Nothing too challenging to start with… There! Standing alone. Pale skin and long chestnut-coloured hair, looking awkward and out of place in her gingham dress and dark-rimmed glasses. I moved in.
”Dance with me?”
”Uh?”
”DANCE WITH ME!!”
It wasn’t a request, it was a command. And despite being shouted into my ear from a distance of about six inches it was still barely intelligible above the din of the crowded disco and it took a while for the message to penetrate the daydream I was enjoying. It took me completely by surprise; I hadn’t come to the disco to dance, I had come to stand by the wall, drink cheap gassy beer and watch the others dance in the hope that by the end of the evening I would be drunk enough to lose my inhibitions a little. And now, here was the girl who had caught my eye right from the first day physically dragging me out onto the floor and I was nowhere near drunk enough yet.
”I need you to rescue me” She explained. ”There’s a Turkish guy been pestering me all evening and I can’t get rid of him. I’ve just sent him off to buy me a drink but I want you to take me out for a dance until he gets back and then stay with me so he gets the message.”
Well, I’m not proud. I didn’t mind being used as a cock blocker by this damsel in distress. Anyway, she had a captivating smile and mischevious eyes and it was exhilerating to be dancing with her. Suddenly I had status in the room. I was with a girl.
The marauding Turk shot me a filthy glance as he handed over the drink but I stood my ground, moving in a little closer to my damsel. I suppose these days I might have been risking a glassing, but he retreated to find someone else. My job was completed, but we stayed together. Small talk was impossible so we just exchanged scraps of shouted conversation, nods and smiles. Eventually I thought I’d better offer her another drink.
”BEER, PLEASE” This was a relief. Beer was cheap.
”A HALF?”
”NO!!! A PINT. WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?” She laughed.
So she wants to play tough. So be it. I’d show her how to handle a pint.
I struggled back from the bar with two thick plastic glasses full of plastic beer and handed her one. I raised my own to my lips and, without taking my eyes off her, necked the pint down in one.
So did she.
She finished first, threw her glass to the ground in triumph and stamped on it with a shout. It exploded with a most satisfying bang and her eyes blazed fire. She’d put me in my place and serve me right. She’d staked out her territory; she was all woman, but nobody’s doormat. She wanted to be treated like a lady but she was a match for any man. I was captivated.
At one o clock sharp the music stopped and the lights came on. But we were nowhere near ready to finish partying, my damsel and I, and our little group of firm friends of all of three days acquaintance. About a dozen of us crowded into one of the little study bedrooms on the seventh floor. Someone brought some beer. My damsel volunteered some digestive biscuits that she had in her room. I volunteered to help her fetch them.
We didn't return to the party that night. We held our own party for two in her room. In her bed.
Just Heather and I.
This post was inspired by Heather, jogging my memory of the events of that night over 30 years ago. If you want to know the full, unexpurgated and slightly embarassing details and a bit more of the background have a look here.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Rude Food
The title of this post is not an allusion to this very amusing website, but was inspired by something that Suze posted last week that just jogged a memory.
One of the things that I was most sorry to leave behind when I left UK was the tradition of the Pub Lunch. When I worked in an advisory capacity to H.M. Government a large proportion of our department staff would be found in The Swan, having a Pint and a sandwich between about 12.30 and 2.00, especially on Fridays.
We had a placement student (intern), a psychology undergrad, who I have chosen to call Mel. She reminded me of Jennifer Ehle in 'The Camomile Lawn'.
She was Sex On A Stick, and she knew it. She also had a lovely personality and was always fun to be around. When she sat in the bar with her White Diamond and filled French stick, all male eyes would be surreptitiously on her, watching her wrap her lips around the smooth rounded end of the bread and seeing how much she would take into her mouth before taking a bite.
On the occasion in question she had chosen a ham salad in half a French stick and as she supported it in both hands and brought it up to the perfect ‘O’ formed by those exquisite carmine lips unrest broke out among the male admirers present (myself included). She looked up in confusion as our little group broke down in shouts of bawdy laughter.
It was a very well-filled French stick, and at the cut end two pink flaps of ham smeared with traces of mayonnaise were protruding out of the vertical gash in the oval cross-section of the bread…do I really have to draw a diagram?
Mel flushed a little when she inspected the sight for herself but it didn’t last long. After all, she was the centre of attention in a gaggle of male admirers and that was where she felt most at home.
I've just recalled recalled another little memory relating to the gorgeous Mel and her eating habits:
Heather and I invited her, plus a few other of my mates from work, over to dinner one night and I was privileged to witness her eating asparagus spears for the first time ever. She claimed never even to have seen asparagus before. She was quite taken with the shape, especially when one of the others remarked that in Victorian times asparagus was known as 'Housemaid's fancy'.
The choice of menu was Heather's, not mine, by the way.
One of the things that I was most sorry to leave behind when I left UK was the tradition of the Pub Lunch. When I worked in an advisory capacity to H.M. Government a large proportion of our department staff would be found in The Swan, having a Pint and a sandwich between about 12.30 and 2.00, especially on Fridays.
We had a placement student (intern), a psychology undergrad, who I have chosen to call Mel. She reminded me of Jennifer Ehle in 'The Camomile Lawn'.
She was Sex On A Stick, and she knew it. She also had a lovely personality and was always fun to be around. When she sat in the bar with her White Diamond and filled French stick, all male eyes would be surreptitiously on her, watching her wrap her lips around the smooth rounded end of the bread and seeing how much she would take into her mouth before taking a bite.
On the occasion in question she had chosen a ham salad in half a French stick and as she supported it in both hands and brought it up to the perfect ‘O’ formed by those exquisite carmine lips unrest broke out among the male admirers present (myself included). She looked up in confusion as our little group broke down in shouts of bawdy laughter.
It was a very well-filled French stick, and at the cut end two pink flaps of ham smeared with traces of mayonnaise were protruding out of the vertical gash in the oval cross-section of the bread…do I really have to draw a diagram?
Mel flushed a little when she inspected the sight for herself but it didn’t last long. After all, she was the centre of attention in a gaggle of male admirers and that was where she felt most at home.
Footnote:
I've just recalled recalled another little memory relating to the gorgeous Mel and her eating habits:
Heather and I invited her, plus a few other of my mates from work, over to dinner one night and I was privileged to witness her eating asparagus spears for the first time ever. She claimed never even to have seen asparagus before. She was quite taken with the shape, especially when one of the others remarked that in Victorian times asparagus was known as 'Housemaid's fancy'.
The choice of menu was Heather's, not mine, by the way.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Inexplicable Crush Meme
I’ve been tagged by Cake to reveal my secret crush. It’s no use denying it, we all have them, sometimes it’s just a bit embarassing owning up to them. It’s ok, though, there are no secrets between Heather and I and she knows all my stupid crushes, not least because I become very vocal when they appear on TV.
I assume we are talking about celebs or other people in the public eye. Not too interesting telling about how I fancied Rachel in the 4th form unless I actually did something about it other than masturbating (which I didn’t).
So here goes: The one that really drove Heather mad when we were still living in UK was Siân Lloyd.
What can I say about Siân Lloyd? Beauty with brains, a graduate of Cambridge as well as my old alma mater, Cardiff University (as it is now), and that delightful soft Welsh accent to boot. When it was her presenting the weather after the ITN News I would be in raptures, much to Heather’s disgust.
My hopes that it would be us two were briefly revived when she was ditched by that limp dick, the Hon. MEMBER for Montgomeryshire, Lemsip Harpik, in favour of a Cheeky Girl (or possibly both of them, and their mother as well for all I know). But now she’s gone and married that racing-car chappie.
Oh well, I can dream…
Now... who to lumber with this tag?
Vi, VPL, Nitebyrd. Tell us all who you fantasise about!!
I assume we are talking about celebs or other people in the public eye. Not too interesting telling about how I fancied Rachel in the 4th form unless I actually did something about it other than masturbating (which I didn’t).
So here goes: The one that really drove Heather mad when we were still living in UK was Siân Lloyd.
What can I say about Siân Lloyd? Beauty with brains, a graduate of Cambridge as well as my old alma mater, Cardiff University (as it is now), and that delightful soft Welsh accent to boot. When it was her presenting the weather after the ITN News I would be in raptures, much to Heather’s disgust.
My hopes that it would be us two were briefly revived when she was ditched by that limp dick, the Hon. MEMBER for Montgomeryshire, Lemsip Harpik, in favour of a Cheeky Girl (or possibly both of them, and their mother as well for all I know). But now she’s gone and married that racing-car chappie.
Oh well, I can dream…
Now... who to lumber with this tag?
Vi, VPL, Nitebyrd. Tell us all who you fantasise about!!
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Our Little Star
Sons’ gf (M1) has a real talent for drawing. The other day she presented daughter with this portrait of her, as a way of wishing her ‘good luck’ for her appearance in a forthcoming talent contest.
Unfortunately the contest was cancelled due to poor ticket sales but Daughter was very touched by the picture. M1 has her own distinctive style but this picture just captures Daughter as she is when she’s on stage.
I was sorry to have to erase her name for the purposes of this post because the text is part of the artwork, but you get the idea.
**Gone now!**
Daughter wasn’t too put out by the contest being cancelled. She’s got more than enough on her plate at the moment. Every year her school put on musical which involves every student in the school in one way or another; as actors, singers, musicians, stagehands, sound or lighting techies, make-up artists or in sewing the costumes. It is a big production, written and scored by teachers and students at the school especially for the occasion and it plays over three nights and a Saturday matinee. Tonight is the opening night and of course we’re off up to see it. Daughter is singing one of the lead roles, but not content with that, she’s also playing a bit-part as a homeless person, doing a voice-over as a narrator at one point and has been involved in writing the lyrics for some of the songs.
She’s fired with enthusiasm about the whole thing and we can’t wait to see it. We've framed the original drawing to give to her after the performance.
Unfortunately the contest was cancelled due to poor ticket sales but Daughter was very touched by the picture. M1 has her own distinctive style but this picture just captures Daughter as she is when she’s on stage.
I was sorry to have to erase her name for the purposes of this post because the text is part of the artwork, but you get the idea.
**Gone now!**
Daughter wasn’t too put out by the contest being cancelled. She’s got more than enough on her plate at the moment. Every year her school put on musical which involves every student in the school in one way or another; as actors, singers, musicians, stagehands, sound or lighting techies, make-up artists or in sewing the costumes. It is a big production, written and scored by teachers and students at the school especially for the occasion and it plays over three nights and a Saturday matinee. Tonight is the opening night and of course we’re off up to see it. Daughter is singing one of the lead roles, but not content with that, she’s also playing a bit-part as a homeless person, doing a voice-over as a narrator at one point and has been involved in writing the lyrics for some of the songs.
She’s fired with enthusiasm about the whole thing and we can’t wait to see it. We've framed the original drawing to give to her after the performance.
UPDATE
We had a brilliant evening. The show was really entertaining, with great performances all round. Of course we hoped that Daughter would have a big part and it turned out she was playing the part of God...they don't get much bigger than that! She also played a tramp, a department store security guard and a punk anarchist demonstrator would you believe, complete with mohican. So not just costume changes along the way, also hairstyle changes! And then at the end, she was the one who called the cast and crew onto the stage to take their bows.
When we met up afterwards she was absolutely glowing with the adrenaline rush. What struck us was just how confident she is on stage. A long way from that timid little girl with the quavering voice who struggled bravely through 'Yesterday' at a school concert just a couple of years ago. We're so proud of how she's found herself.
Sugasm#122
Sugasm #122
March 10th, 2008 by Vixen Last modified: March 10th, 2008
Leave a comment
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.
Want in Sugasm #123? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.
Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Sex and love; anger and appeasement
“And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely.”
The Tetrised Luggage
“Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat.”
You never know who we are
“People tend to have an idea of who can/does talk about sex.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The Media vs. Pornography
Editor’s Choice
Red Assed Mouthsoaping for His Lies
More SugasmJoin the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM & Fetish
The Best $1.50 I Ever Spent
A Big Hole in Her Crotch
If only he was naughty more often…
“Is it Any Wonder?”
More Cock Worship
Pavlovian Training of a Submissive Phone Sex Slut
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest
Braces and Medical Fetish Movies From Beauty And Braces
Getting to the Bottom of DickHats.com
Plastic Bag Suffocation And Forced Orgasms On Hogtied
Shot at Home’s 100% Authentic, Homemade, Amateur Video
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Audacia Ray Returns!
Defending the sex-positve element of Feminist Carnival #53
Nora Roberts Doesn’t Write Porn!
Robot Love
Some thoughts as I navigate through the waters of non-monogamy
Sperm Donor
Sex Work
Thoughts On Dominating; My Dos & Don’ts
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Amber’s Wedding Day Confession (Continued)
The best leopard print lingerie ever
Found Out
Fucking girlfriend’s brother
HNT - Caught pt 2
‘Ho, me?
Hot Screeching Excerpt - Things That Go Hump In The Night
How to perfectly ruin your panties
Masturbatory Thoughts
Mental Infidelities - The Voyeur
My New York Indiscretion: Part Two
Night Swimming
The Week In Sex: Wednesday Night
You Shouldn’t Rub The Lamp…
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Apple HNT
Catalina loves Rollo
Erotic Photoshoot
Faye Valentine in tight blue sweater
The first blowjob porn film I ever made
Hottie Jordan
March 10th, 2008 by Vixen Last modified: March 10th, 2008
Leave a comment
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.
Want in Sugasm #123? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.
Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
Sex and love; anger and appeasement
“And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely.”
The Tetrised Luggage
“Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat.”
You never know who we are
“People tend to have an idea of who can/does talk about sex.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The Media vs. Pornography
Editor’s Choice
Red Assed Mouthsoaping for His Lies
More SugasmJoin the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)
BDSM & Fetish
The Best $1.50 I Ever Spent
A Big Hole in Her Crotch
If only he was naughty more often…
“Is it Any Wonder?”
More Cock Worship
Pavlovian Training of a Submissive Phone Sex Slut
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Blog Anniversary Contest
Braces and Medical Fetish Movies From Beauty And Braces
Getting to the Bottom of DickHats.com
Plastic Bag Suffocation And Forced Orgasms On Hogtied
Shot at Home’s 100% Authentic, Homemade, Amateur Video
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Audacia Ray Returns!
Defending the sex-positve element of Feminist Carnival #53
Nora Roberts Doesn’t Write Porn!
Robot Love
Some thoughts as I navigate through the waters of non-monogamy
Sperm Donor
Sex Work
Thoughts On Dominating; My Dos & Don’ts
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Amber’s Wedding Day Confession (Continued)
The best leopard print lingerie ever
Found Out
Fucking girlfriend’s brother
HNT - Caught pt 2
‘Ho, me?
Hot Screeching Excerpt - Things That Go Hump In The Night
How to perfectly ruin your panties
Masturbatory Thoughts
Mental Infidelities - The Voyeur
My New York Indiscretion: Part Two
Night Swimming
The Week In Sex: Wednesday Night
You Shouldn’t Rub The Lamp…
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Apple HNT
Catalina loves Rollo
Erotic Photoshoot
Faye Valentine in tight blue sweater
The first blowjob porn film I ever made
Hottie Jordan
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Breakfast In Bed
It’s 2 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon and we have both just got out of bed. If you could have seen us an hour ago you would have laughed: Like a scene from some second rate sitcom we were the very epitome of suburban normality; sitting up in bed, sipping tea and trying not to get toast crumbs in the sheets, Heather doing the crossword in her women’s magazine and me helping her sporadically.
If you’d have seen us two hours ago however, I’m not sure what you would have done: Laughed maybe, blushed perhaps, covered your eyes or cheered from the sidelines…
When she woke, Heather was still partly dressed. She had fallen asleep in my arms last night as I was slowly trying to undress her. We had both had a bit to drink and it was very late. We spent a long, lazy time waking up; holding each other close, running our hands all over each other, kissing and nuzzling. Slowly the tempo picked up. I pressed my lips more determinedly to hers, she gripped my leg more firmly around mine and started to rub up against my thigh.
Clasping each other still, we rolled until I was on my back and suddenly she was on all fours above me, legs splayed and with her lovely breasts swinging in my face like a pair of giant pacifiers. With one hand I tried to gather them together and guide them to my mouth while the other stretched down to her slit now wide open and invitingly wet. I hooked a couple of fingers inside her and was immediately rewarded by a long, satisfied ‘aaahhh!’ from her. She lowered her hips over my hand to maximise her pleasure as my thumb sought out her clit.
With a little shift in position I was able to push a well-wetted middle finger up against her rosebud and then, with just the slightest pressure, in. Deeply in. There was no sharp intake of breath, no urgent warning to be careful, just more little moans of pleasure, more writhing of her body on top of mine.
I pulled her face closer to mine:
“You know I’m going to have to fuck you in there, don’t you?”
She nodded.
I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly. I plunged deep inside her, cupped her face in my hands again and whispered my need for her, my need to be inside of her. I wanted to enjoy all that her sweet warm cunt had to offer, but ultimately I needed the thrill of being inside her tight little arse.
We shifted to the spoons position and I fucked her long and slow while she jiggled about to make sure that I brushed just the right spot with every thrust. With one hand I gripped her neck. Hard. With the other I wiggled a finger into her arse again, preparing her. I rolled away and scooped up a dollop of lube from the pot on the bedside table. She was still lying on her side and she drew the topmost leg up, laying bare her most secret and intimate places. I lubricated us both generously and, kneeling astride her outstretched leg, penetrated her. Her pent-up breath was released in a long vocal sigh of relief as I slid easily into her, pulled out until the head of my cock was tickled and teased by that tight ring of muscle guarding her entrance and then slowly slid into her again, as deep as I could go. Heather rolled over onto her front with me still locked inside her and clamped her legs together so that my whole body was stretched out on top of hers with my legs straddling her, ankles resting on her calves. I took a firm grip on her neck with both hands and felt her shudder as I did so. Using her shoulders as my leverage I slid back and forth on top of her.
Then she needed a pillow, two pillows, under her stomach. I had to pull out to reach them. Supported like this her bum was now jutting high in the air and I could simply part her cheeks, place the tip of my cock on her accommodating little arsehole and pitch forward, momentarily losing my balance as I almost fell into her.
I don’t know what it is that makes Heather (and for all I know, every other woman) sensitive to the man’s impending orgasm. I didn’t change the slow steady rhythm of stroking in and out of her, my breathing stayed the same, I thought I managed to bottle up my building climax pretty well, the more to enjoy it when it finally erupted. But she could sense it and she responded to it with a growing excitement, little whimpers, contractions, shudders, that fed my climax which in turn fed her in a growing spiral of ecstasy. I knew she wouldn’t be able to come just from what I was giving her but she certainly was getting very close. I let go for all I was worth deep into her rectum and slumped back on my heels, mopping the sweat from my fringe of hair on the small of her back. She remained motionless in her preferred position, on knees and elbows with her forearms pointing forward and palms flat on the bed, like a sphinx or a sleek, lithe leopard. She didn’t need to tell me how she wanted to come.
I knelt beside her, pushed a thumb into her dripping cunt until it found that special velvety patch on her front vaginal wall and slid the rest of that hand along her slippery slit until my fingertips caressed her clitoris. Then I gently began to work that hand back and forth in a sparse motion of barely a few millimetres, with a minute rolling from side to side while keeping up the pressure inside her. To seal her fate I slid the index finger of my other hand down into theat recently-vacated other hole, now delightfully dilated. The response was so fast that I wasn’t absolutely sure she had come, or whether she was just enjoying a plateau of joy on the way. In the end I had to ask her. Yes, she was fine, thank you.
I must admit to dozing off a little while Heather cleaned up and went to make the tea. I must admit to saying “Yes please” to the proffered slice of hot buttered toast when she came back upstairs with breakfast. And, sitting up in bed, that butter wouldn’t have melted in our mouths as we sipped our tea and did the crossword, in our cosy suburban normality.
If you’d have seen us two hours ago however, I’m not sure what you would have done: Laughed maybe, blushed perhaps, covered your eyes or cheered from the sidelines…
When she woke, Heather was still partly dressed. She had fallen asleep in my arms last night as I was slowly trying to undress her. We had both had a bit to drink and it was very late. We spent a long, lazy time waking up; holding each other close, running our hands all over each other, kissing and nuzzling. Slowly the tempo picked up. I pressed my lips more determinedly to hers, she gripped my leg more firmly around mine and started to rub up against my thigh.
Clasping each other still, we rolled until I was on my back and suddenly she was on all fours above me, legs splayed and with her lovely breasts swinging in my face like a pair of giant pacifiers. With one hand I tried to gather them together and guide them to my mouth while the other stretched down to her slit now wide open and invitingly wet. I hooked a couple of fingers inside her and was immediately rewarded by a long, satisfied ‘aaahhh!’ from her. She lowered her hips over my hand to maximise her pleasure as my thumb sought out her clit.
With a little shift in position I was able to push a well-wetted middle finger up against her rosebud and then, with just the slightest pressure, in. Deeply in. There was no sharp intake of breath, no urgent warning to be careful, just more little moans of pleasure, more writhing of her body on top of mine.
I pulled her face closer to mine:
“You know I’m going to have to fuck you in there, don’t you?”
She nodded.
I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly. I plunged deep inside her, cupped her face in my hands again and whispered my need for her, my need to be inside of her. I wanted to enjoy all that her sweet warm cunt had to offer, but ultimately I needed the thrill of being inside her tight little arse.
We shifted to the spoons position and I fucked her long and slow while she jiggled about to make sure that I brushed just the right spot with every thrust. With one hand I gripped her neck. Hard. With the other I wiggled a finger into her arse again, preparing her. I rolled away and scooped up a dollop of lube from the pot on the bedside table. She was still lying on her side and she drew the topmost leg up, laying bare her most secret and intimate places. I lubricated us both generously and, kneeling astride her outstretched leg, penetrated her. Her pent-up breath was released in a long vocal sigh of relief as I slid easily into her, pulled out until the head of my cock was tickled and teased by that tight ring of muscle guarding her entrance and then slowly slid into her again, as deep as I could go. Heather rolled over onto her front with me still locked inside her and clamped her legs together so that my whole body was stretched out on top of hers with my legs straddling her, ankles resting on her calves. I took a firm grip on her neck with both hands and felt her shudder as I did so. Using her shoulders as my leverage I slid back and forth on top of her.
Then she needed a pillow, two pillows, under her stomach. I had to pull out to reach them. Supported like this her bum was now jutting high in the air and I could simply part her cheeks, place the tip of my cock on her accommodating little arsehole and pitch forward, momentarily losing my balance as I almost fell into her.
I don’t know what it is that makes Heather (and for all I know, every other woman) sensitive to the man’s impending orgasm. I didn’t change the slow steady rhythm of stroking in and out of her, my breathing stayed the same, I thought I managed to bottle up my building climax pretty well, the more to enjoy it when it finally erupted. But she could sense it and she responded to it with a growing excitement, little whimpers, contractions, shudders, that fed my climax which in turn fed her in a growing spiral of ecstasy. I knew she wouldn’t be able to come just from what I was giving her but she certainly was getting very close. I let go for all I was worth deep into her rectum and slumped back on my heels, mopping the sweat from my fringe of hair on the small of her back. She remained motionless in her preferred position, on knees and elbows with her forearms pointing forward and palms flat on the bed, like a sphinx or a sleek, lithe leopard. She didn’t need to tell me how she wanted to come.
I knelt beside her, pushed a thumb into her dripping cunt until it found that special velvety patch on her front vaginal wall and slid the rest of that hand along her slippery slit until my fingertips caressed her clitoris. Then I gently began to work that hand back and forth in a sparse motion of barely a few millimetres, with a minute rolling from side to side while keeping up the pressure inside her. To seal her fate I slid the index finger of my other hand down into theat recently-vacated other hole, now delightfully dilated. The response was so fast that I wasn’t absolutely sure she had come, or whether she was just enjoying a plateau of joy on the way. In the end I had to ask her. Yes, she was fine, thank you.
I must admit to dozing off a little while Heather cleaned up and went to make the tea. I must admit to saying “Yes please” to the proffered slice of hot buttered toast when she came back upstairs with breakfast. And, sitting up in bed, that butter wouldn’t have melted in our mouths as we sipped our tea and did the crossword, in our cosy suburban normality.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Ashes To Ashes
I managed to catch an episode of the BBC series ’Ashes To Ashes’ last night: The first I’ve seen. I was quite absorbed by it although the pedant in me was looking for little inconsistencies all the way through. Objects or mannerisms of speech that wouldn’t ring true for the period. The striking thing, in contrast with the forerunner series ’Life On Mars’ was that things weren’t really so very diferent from today in many ways. So much so that it seems the producers have had to resort to charicature on occasion to bring home the fact that the action was taking place in the 1980’s.
One little thing did strike home, though. At the very end when the gay lad was re-united with his parents. In the very closing shot you could see a couple of brown patches on the back of his neck. At first I thought ”Malignant Melanoma…too much sun-bed?” but of course that is nowadays thinking. It suddenly clicked. Kaposi’s Sarcoma. There was an explosion in the incidence of what was previously a very rare kind of tumour predominantly, but not exclusively, among gay men in the early eighties and at the time nobody knew why. Now we know that it was almost pathognomonic of HIV/AIDS.
That single closing shot signified the end of a kind of age of sexual innocence, where the worst you could get was pregnant, or a dose of the clap. When condoms were an optional extra and only really necessary if she wasn’t on the pill. Those were the conditions under which I experienced my sexual awakening. I would have been among the last.
One little thing did strike home, though. At the very end when the gay lad was re-united with his parents. In the very closing shot you could see a couple of brown patches on the back of his neck. At first I thought ”Malignant Melanoma…too much sun-bed?” but of course that is nowadays thinking. It suddenly clicked. Kaposi’s Sarcoma. There was an explosion in the incidence of what was previously a very rare kind of tumour predominantly, but not exclusively, among gay men in the early eighties and at the time nobody knew why. Now we know that it was almost pathognomonic of HIV/AIDS.
That single closing shot signified the end of a kind of age of sexual innocence, where the worst you could get was pregnant, or a dose of the clap. When condoms were an optional extra and only really necessary if she wasn’t on the pill. Those were the conditions under which I experienced my sexual awakening. I would have been among the last.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
You Shouldn't Rub The Lamp...
...Unless you want the genie to pop out.
I stepped off the scales, satisfied with what they were telling me.
She ran her hand from the crinkly hair of my chest, across the smoother hair adorning my abdomen, pausing for a minute to feel its’ newly acquired flatness before continuing further southwards.
”You’re more like the shape you were when I first met you”. She noted, approvingly.
”A bit hairier though” I added.
”Yes, you have got a good deal more body hair just recently”
”Just as long as I don’t have a hairy back” I said, turning round. ”I don’t, do I? I’ve heard it said that women find hairy backs a real turn-off. Is that right?”
She brushed a knuckle gently down my back, from the nape of my neck to the crack of my bum.
”I don’t really know. I haven’t really had much experience with hairy-backed guys. I think you’re the oldest guy I’ve ever had sex with”
”What do you mean, you think?”
She giggled and I led her into the bedroom…
We lay in each others arms in the dim light, just enjoying the peace and rest after a strenuous days work.
”I was going to suggest we took an early night and made mad passionate love, but I just feel so comfortable and warm here” She started. I enveloped her head in my arms and held her closer to me. Right now I felt just the same. In any case, her nipples have been very sore and sensitive this last week or so, so that particular playground has been out of bounds to me.
I kissed her on the forehead and slowly, inexorably, her hand slid down my body until it cradled my cock. I felt it grow under her tender touch.
And we carried on talking. About everything under the sun. About our plans for the business, about our plans for the Easter holidays. About what we were going to do with our next day off.
Until at last I could bear the tension no longer.
”It’s not going to suck itself” I exclaimed as I threw off the duvet and guided her head down to my groin. With infinite gentleness she took my swollen cock between her sweet lips. I’m not sure if she realises just what that does to me, how exquisite a feeling it is to have her lips and silky tongue gliding over the head and down the shaft, cradling and caressing my balls all the while. I just had to let out a long, satisfied ”Aaaaaahhhh!”
After what seemed like an eternity of bliss she stretched out with her mouth wide open, her lips forming a perfect ’O’, inviting me to place my lips on them, to taste the metallic taste of me on her. I kissed her long and deep, my tongue probing into her mouth, thrusting and parrying with hers. Gently I cupped her breast, being careful to avoid the nipple. I longed to suck it but I had been warned off. Instead, she moved down the bed a little and latched onto mine. As a substitute for having her own nipples sucked and teased, Heather was sucking and teasing mine. She pressed hard until her nose was flattened against my chest and intertwined her legs with mine as her busy tongue flicked and darted over my engorged nipple inside the vacuum of her mouth.
Any doubts I had about me being able to turn her on were banished. She was turning herself on. She had gripped my leg between hers and was rubbing her groin up and down my thigh. When, at last, she rolled away and I ventured a hand down past her soft mat of pubic hair I could feel that she was thoroughly wet already. I dipped a couple of fingers inside her and drew them as lightly as I could up between her labia, brushing to either side of her clitoris. She shuddered and I repeated the long, slow, gentle strokes, dragging more and more of her sweet juices up over her clit. She clung to me tighter and tighter. I resisted the urge to rub harder and faster, to ’finish her off’. I just carried on stroking and caressing. Her legs clamped tightly over my hand and I had to push away to maintain that even light touch on her clitoris. She let out a high pitched cry which, at last, culminated in an exultant shout and then tears as her pent-up tensions were released in an instant.
I held her face in my hands as I crouched over her and she guided me into her. I pushed slow and deep into her luscious wetness before pulling out again, equally slowly until the head of my cock was playing at her very rim. She looked apprehensively into my eyes; sometimes I have got carried away in my enthusiasm and have ’missed’ while thrusting into her, causing her a lot of discomfort.
”Trust me” I whispered and slid slowly back inside her again, savouring every slick centimetre. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to me. Her knowing that I could so easily hurt her, and yet trusting that I woudn’t is the most powerful aphrodisiac and I continued my steady rhythm of sliding deep in and then out until I was clear of her. There was no frantic banging or thrusting at the finish, just one long final push and a protracted sigh of satisfaction as her body became the willing receptacle for my essence the way it has so many times before.
”So much for a quiet snuggle” I teased her as we settled for sleep once more. ”You know you shouldn’t rub the lamp if you don’t want the genie to pop out”.
She smiled. She knew exactly what she was doing.
I stepped off the scales, satisfied with what they were telling me.
She ran her hand from the crinkly hair of my chest, across the smoother hair adorning my abdomen, pausing for a minute to feel its’ newly acquired flatness before continuing further southwards.
”You’re more like the shape you were when I first met you”. She noted, approvingly.
”A bit hairier though” I added.
”Yes, you have got a good deal more body hair just recently”
”Just as long as I don’t have a hairy back” I said, turning round. ”I don’t, do I? I’ve heard it said that women find hairy backs a real turn-off. Is that right?”
She brushed a knuckle gently down my back, from the nape of my neck to the crack of my bum.
”I don’t really know. I haven’t really had much experience with hairy-backed guys. I think you’re the oldest guy I’ve ever had sex with”
”What do you mean, you think?”
She giggled and I led her into the bedroom…
We lay in each others arms in the dim light, just enjoying the peace and rest after a strenuous days work.
”I was going to suggest we took an early night and made mad passionate love, but I just feel so comfortable and warm here” She started. I enveloped her head in my arms and held her closer to me. Right now I felt just the same. In any case, her nipples have been very sore and sensitive this last week or so, so that particular playground has been out of bounds to me.
I kissed her on the forehead and slowly, inexorably, her hand slid down my body until it cradled my cock. I felt it grow under her tender touch.
And we carried on talking. About everything under the sun. About our plans for the business, about our plans for the Easter holidays. About what we were going to do with our next day off.
Until at last I could bear the tension no longer.
”It’s not going to suck itself” I exclaimed as I threw off the duvet and guided her head down to my groin. With infinite gentleness she took my swollen cock between her sweet lips. I’m not sure if she realises just what that does to me, how exquisite a feeling it is to have her lips and silky tongue gliding over the head and down the shaft, cradling and caressing my balls all the while. I just had to let out a long, satisfied ”Aaaaaahhhh!”
After what seemed like an eternity of bliss she stretched out with her mouth wide open, her lips forming a perfect ’O’, inviting me to place my lips on them, to taste the metallic taste of me on her. I kissed her long and deep, my tongue probing into her mouth, thrusting and parrying with hers. Gently I cupped her breast, being careful to avoid the nipple. I longed to suck it but I had been warned off. Instead, she moved down the bed a little and latched onto mine. As a substitute for having her own nipples sucked and teased, Heather was sucking and teasing mine. She pressed hard until her nose was flattened against my chest and intertwined her legs with mine as her busy tongue flicked and darted over my engorged nipple inside the vacuum of her mouth.
Any doubts I had about me being able to turn her on were banished. She was turning herself on. She had gripped my leg between hers and was rubbing her groin up and down my thigh. When, at last, she rolled away and I ventured a hand down past her soft mat of pubic hair I could feel that she was thoroughly wet already. I dipped a couple of fingers inside her and drew them as lightly as I could up between her labia, brushing to either side of her clitoris. She shuddered and I repeated the long, slow, gentle strokes, dragging more and more of her sweet juices up over her clit. She clung to me tighter and tighter. I resisted the urge to rub harder and faster, to ’finish her off’. I just carried on stroking and caressing. Her legs clamped tightly over my hand and I had to push away to maintain that even light touch on her clitoris. She let out a high pitched cry which, at last, culminated in an exultant shout and then tears as her pent-up tensions were released in an instant.
I held her face in my hands as I crouched over her and she guided me into her. I pushed slow and deep into her luscious wetness before pulling out again, equally slowly until the head of my cock was playing at her very rim. She looked apprehensively into my eyes; sometimes I have got carried away in my enthusiasm and have ’missed’ while thrusting into her, causing her a lot of discomfort.
”Trust me” I whispered and slid slowly back inside her again, savouring every slick centimetre. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to me. Her knowing that I could so easily hurt her, and yet trusting that I woudn’t is the most powerful aphrodisiac and I continued my steady rhythm of sliding deep in and then out until I was clear of her. There was no frantic banging or thrusting at the finish, just one long final push and a protracted sigh of satisfaction as her body became the willing receptacle for my essence the way it has so many times before.
”So much for a quiet snuggle” I teased her as we settled for sleep once more. ”You know you shouldn’t rub the lamp if you don’t want the genie to pop out”.
She smiled. She knew exactly what she was doing.
Accurately Described
I’m in the throes of a sore throat at the moment. That and being snowed under with ’real’ work has severely cut into the important task of posting to this blog. Sorry.
Heather took pity on me yesterday and went to the drug store next door to get something to ease the pain. She came back with a box of tablets with the rather over-optimistic title ’Gone-by-tomorrow’.
Well, the box contained 20 lozenges and you’re supposed to suck one or two every hour. At that rate of consumption they certainly would be ’gone by tomorrow’.
The sore throat, needless to say, wasn’t
Heather took pity on me yesterday and went to the drug store next door to get something to ease the pain. She came back with a box of tablets with the rather over-optimistic title ’Gone-by-tomorrow’.
Well, the box contained 20 lozenges and you’re supposed to suck one or two every hour. At that rate of consumption they certainly would be ’gone by tomorrow’.
The sore throat, needless to say, wasn’t
Monday, March 03, 2008
In My Head
Do you ever have that thing where a tune gets into your head and, try as you might, it just keeps playing and playing?
Of course you do.
Over here it’s known as an ’Ørelus’ – an ’Ear-louse’. A wonderfully descriptive word.
I’ve got one at the moment. Mind you, it could be worse. It’s this:
And I don’t mind it at all, because she does.
Of course you do.
Over here it’s known as an ’Ørelus’ – an ’Ear-louse’. A wonderfully descriptive word.
I’ve got one at the moment. Mind you, it could be worse. It’s this:
And I don’t mind it at all, because she does.
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