Foundation

Although I don’t remember the first time someone put my toes in their mouth (it might have been the boss I had a brief affair with when I was nineteen…?), I do know that I’m forever grateful – it’s something I’ve wanted from every partner since.  There are people who are really freaked out by feet because of their smell or their aesthetic, but I find them to be absolutely beautiful.  Some people who are into feet like their own touched or licked; others like to fondle or worship other people’s feet.  As for me – it’s all the feet all the time.

I wouldn’t consider myself to have a foot fetish per se since I don’t need to touch, see, or think about feet to get off; I just love looking at and touching feet and having mine caressed, licked, and beaten.  I once even had the soles of my feet pierced just for the craic!  I couldn’t dance for a few days afterward, but it was an interesting sensation.  It’s always such a delight telling a new play partner that I like having the bottoms of my feet lightly caned and flogged.  If I’m really into someone and generally like their smell, I love smelling their feet, too, and have never been grossed out by sock lint between toes or football-induced blood blisters*.  I stare a bit too long at high arches and relish the feeling of big, strong hands wrapped around my feet.

There was a time long ago when I was hosting someone from out of state for a dance exchange; he was giving me a massage and started rubbing my feet.  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said – “If you touch my feet, you’re going to have to fuck me.”  I must have taken him by surprise, because he gently let my foot down and told me that he guessed he would have to concentrate on my back.  I was thrilled when I went to visit him months later and, walking upstairs from a wine bar, he pinned me against the wall and whispered into my ear, “I think I’m ready to massage your feet now.”  See?  Intoxicating.

This is why, on the second evening I ever spent with The Engineer, I laughed when he drunkenly suggested sticking a toe in me while we were taking a bath together.  “Go for it!” I said.  “It’s just a toe.”  He did, and it was quite a bonding experience.  Also why I will laugh for ages and ages every time I hear Rachel Lark’s song “Fuck My Toe” (that whole album is fabulous; I highly recommend giving it a listen).  Saying yes to something so small let him know that if he could ask for silly sexy things, then it might be okay to ask for other secret desires to be met down the road.  Kind of like a podiatric litmus test.

All of this is to say that feet are my jam.  My toe jam, as it were.  They are our very foundation.  They ground us, they move us, they carry us up mountains and down canyons and into forests and rivers, and they give us the ability to dance and play and run free.  They connect us to the earth and to each other.  What’s not to worship?

 

 

 

 

*I’m looking at you, honey.

Advertisements

Orgy of the Dolls

I recently found a bunch of old Barbies in my basement; before giving them away, I thought I’d have a bit of cheeky fun taking some remarkably inappropriate photos of them.  I hope you all find this as hilarious as I did!!!

And a scissoring photo for good measure:

Happy April Fool’s!!!

Sinful Sunday

Pulse

The very first time I remember feeling pleasure on my clitoris and trying to recreate it was when I was twelve(ish?); clamping my hands around the edge of the deep end of a swimming pool, I remember feeling jets of water rushing over my crotch and thinking, “Hey, that feels pretty great; I wonder if I can do that in my very own bathtub?”  And indeed, I could!  That’s right, folks: I started wanking because of the Young Men’s Christian Association.  Thanks, YMCA.

When I was older and started using vibrators, I noticed that they gave me completely different sensations and orgasms; while I lasted longer using a vibrator, the orgasms I had were less intense.  I never thought I’d find a toy that gave me the same sensations that a strong jet of water could… but the toy has finally found me.  The pressure waves / pressurized air pulses of the Satisfyer toys (and the Womanizer toys, I’m sure) feel very much like water to me.  This is kind of bittersweet: While I get off faster and more efficiently, as soon as I come, I need the stimulation off my clit immediately, whereas with a vibrator, it might take me longer to climax, but I can keep it on my clit and continue to wank because the sensations don’t overstimulate me.

Specs

I (along with a TON of other sex bloggers) was sent three different Satisfyer toys to try out in exchange for an honest review – the Satisfyer Pro Plus Vibrate, the Satisfyer Pro G-Spot Rabbit, and the Satisfyer Pro 4 Couples.  All three:

  • use “air pulse technology” to create a kind of suction feeling
  • have a removable nozzle on the head for easy cleaning
  • are white with champagne / rose-colored accents
  • are waterproof and can therefore be submerged
  • are USB-rechargeable and connect to the chargers magnetically
  • have eleven levels of intensity for the wave / suction nozzle
  • have ten vibration patterns for the vibe; the patterns are similar to those on other vibrating toys
  • become a LOT more buzzy at higher vibration levels
  • cost $60 at the US Satisfyer website
  • are made of silicone and ABS plastic
  • have separate buttons for suction and vibration; you have to cycle through the vibration patterns but are able to raise and lower the suction level with separate buttons on all of them
  • have warnings in the user manuals not to “product to stimulate any part of the body for more than 15 minutes,” which is a bit worrisome.
  • are more easy to seal against the clit with a bit of lube
  • have an initial charge time of 2 – 8 hours

Satisfyer Pro Plus Vibration

Charge time: 2 hours   Use time: 2 hours

You press and hold the button with the wave symbol on it in order to start and stop the vibrations; press and hold the button with the power symbol on it to start and stop the suction waves, which was confusing at first and ended up with me turning on the rather loud vibrator when I’d meant to turn on the quieter air pulse nozzle… I don’t live alone, so I rely on quiet toys for discreet wanking.  The manual says that you should “spread the labia apart to expose the clitoris” as to “perfectly position the pressure wave stimulator”; however, because my clit is so sensitive, I didn’t need to form a seal or position it perfectly – it got me off when loosely placed and on low settings.  This might not be true for someone who prefers or needs stronger or more intense stimulation.  The Pro Plus has a curved shape, and the buttons are super accessible (the power buttons are also different sizes, making it easy to distinguish between them if you can’t see them); while I love the way it fits into my hand, I can’t stop thinking that it looks like a penis fish / other various sea worms!  Take that as you will.  I use this toy often and love it; my favorite thing about it is that because of the way the nozzle is set up, when I turn on the vibrator, it vibrates around my clit.  As previously stated, I have a super sensitive clitoris, so I’m not a huge fan of direct stimulation; I love that I can use this toy as a vibrator when I want a more languid wank and as an air pulse toy when I just need a quick release.

Satisfyer Pro G-Spot Rabbit

Charge time: 3 hours    Use time: 2 hours

Both the air pressure waves and the vibrations of the rabbit are quieter than those on the Pro Plus Vibration model, which is nice if you don’t want to be heard; in this model, you just press and hold the increase button for the air pulse nozzle instead of pressing a power button, which I actually prefer (I found it less confusing).  Although I personally enjoy them, I wouldn’t recommend rabbit-style toys in general; as most of them have an immobile arm for clit stim, the chances that they’ll fit everyone’s anatomy are slim to none.  With this toy in particular, fit is important as many folks find that they need a seal around their clit in order to get off with the air pulse nozzle.  The Satisfyer Rabbit has an edge / ridge around the dildo part; I find it super uncomfortable and prefer a more round / smooth dildo.  Overall, I’m not really into this toy; I’d prefer a combination of a regular dildo and the Pro Plus so that I can take the stimulation off my clit immediately after I come, but keep using the dildo.

Satisfyer Pro 4 Couples

Charge time: 1.5 hours      Use time: 70 minutes

This model has the same controls as the Pro Plus Vibration model.  This was the first time I’ve ever used a couple’s toy; I’ve been super curious about all of the insertable WeVibes, for instance, but I wasn’t willing to shell out over $100 as someone whose primary partner lives on another continent.  Good thing, because I’m guessing they’d be as disappointing as this toy is.  It seems to me that the whole point of having toys like this is that you get a hands-free clitoral stimulator while having partnered penetrative sex… but the thing wouldn’t stay in.  I had to hold it in place the whole time, and it kept slipping and sliding around my clit because of the thrusting motions.  I also had a really difficult time feeling where the buttons were when it was in so I could raise and lower the pulse level.  I was able to get off with it, but only when I was on top of my partner and only when I was rocking more than riding.  Furthermore, the piece that’s meant to sit inside the vagina felt a bit sharp to me because it has a pointed shape; it was uncomfortable for me and my partner both, and I think a more round shape would be more comfortable.  This toy also has the same problem that the rabbit does: Not everyone’s body is shaped the same, and because the toy comes in one size, it will fit some people’s anatomy and not others’.  If I want clitoral stimulation during PIV / strap-on sex in the future, I’d feel better off with either a cock ring or a small hand-held vibrator (or a small air pulse toy like the Satisfyer Penguin).

In general, I really love the feeling of the air pressure waves / pulses in all of the Satisfyer toys; they’re completely different than motor-driven vibrations and great for a quick, efficient wank.  They feel pretty great on nipples as well!  The fact that these toys are rechargeable and can be completely submerged (and are quieter when they are) are huge selling points, and the chargers are fantastic.  I’m personally not into the white color; it feels too clinical, and I prefer bright, bold colors (anything but fucking pink).  Everyone has different preferences, however, and some reviewers are really into the white color.  I also love how affordable these toys are; that said, professional sex toy reviewers have had some problems with the quality of the toys, and I haven’t had the toys long enough to be able to say how long they will last / function.

Final verdict: If you’re on a budget, don’t care about noise level (the toys can get pretty loud), and like a quick and intense release, I’d highly recommend the Pro Plus.  The sensations are unique, the toy can be adapted for different body parts and types, and you can use both the vibrator and the air pulse nozzle when you’re feeling up for one or the other (or both)!  I think it would be a fabulous toy to attempt to edge with while wanking.

Special Announcement!

If you’d like to purchase one of these lovely toys for yourself or someone you love to celebrate Jesus becoming a zombie, you can get a 25% discount on any of Satisfyer’s toys from March 30th – April 2nd (ends at 11:59 pm MESZ) with discount code teachershavesex25 at www.satisfyer.com.  Toys can only be mailed to Europe, Canada, and the US.

 

PrinciPAL

As Livvy did such an ace job writing a doctor parody, I thought I’d take a crack at writing an education parody for EuphOff!  It feels a bit more lilac than purple, but it is full of absolutely terrible puns.  I’m not actually entering the contest because I also have the exact same toys to give away and am still trying to figure out the best way to do that (Satisfyer reviews forthcoming!), but this was SO much fun to write.  Also, trigger warning: This is a piece about an administrator and a high school student.

“I hear you’ve been behaving very badly,” Principal Johnson said, cupping Tina’s chin in his rugged, yet tender, hand.  Tina looked down at her cheeky cleavage and blushed; her button-down white uniform shirt could barely contain her nubile breasts.  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently, her enchanting eyelashes fluttering just so.  “You’re supposed to graduate next week, Tina,” Mr. Johnson said – “but I don’t think that’s going to happen with an F in English.”  “But Mr. Johnson, that teacher doesn’t like me!” Tina protested with a startling urgency.  “I think she’s jealous,” she pouted.

“And what might she be jealous of?” Mr. Johnson asked.  “She keeps making snide remarks about my body,” Tina said, finally looking Mr. Johnson in the eye. “She says that skirt length has an inverse relationship with depth of thought – but I have an A in all my other classes.  Do you think my skirt is too short?”  “I don’t know, Tina,” he replied.  “I’ll have to examine the evidence.”  Tina stood up; he walked languidly around his desk, stepped behind her, and crouched down, her apple bottom teasing his bulging eyes.  “Now,” he said, “You know your skirt isn’t supposed to be shorter than two inches above your knee.”  He ran his animated fingers up the backs of her trembling thighs until they reached the elevated hem of her skirt, far too scant for a schoolgirl.

“I have to graduate, Mr. Johnson,” Tina pleaded with crystalline teardrops threatening to fall from her large, impassioned blue eyes.  “Isn’t there something you can do to help me?”  “Perhaps,” Mr. Johnson said in a composed voice.  “I want to see just how bad you really are – let’s have a look at your best practices.”  “Sir?” Tina asked, her heart thudding in her chest like a timpani drum.  He continued moving his hands upward, under her skirt, until they reached the three-way junction of her thong.  “Tina, Tina, Tina,” he tutted, his fingers hooked into the skimpy strings, “I don’t think this is what a scholar would wear to study hall.”  I’d love to study your hall, he thought, suppressing a smile.

“But sir –” she started.  Mr. Johnson cut her off.  “It’s no use trying to talk your way out this time, Tina.  You’re going to have to show me that you’re willing to work to get me – er, your grade – up.”  He could feel his principal organ doing some higher-order thinking skills under his trousers.  “Yes, sir,” she said in a husky voice, feeling a few participatory flutters herself.  Mr. Johnson placed a piece of paper and a number two pencil on his desk; she loved the smell of his wood.  “Now, Tina,” he said – “You’re failing English, right?”  “Yes, sir,” she confirmed.  “I’m going to give you a few vocabulary words,” he said; “I want you to write them down, along with their definition and their part of speech.  Think you can do that?”  “Oh, yes, sir!” she said, eager to commence.  As she tipped her youthful bosom over the slender paper and took the pencil in her delicate fingers, he lifted her skirt.  “There’s no question about it,” he said.  “I’d like to punctuate your bottom.”

“Mr. Johnson?” she queried, a puzzled look in her eye. “Never you mind,” he said.  “Your first word is turgid.”  T-u-r-g-e-d, she wrote.  Looking so closely over her shoulder that he could smell her rose perfume, he gave her ass a thwack.  “Incorrect spelling,” he said.  Her cheeks flushed; he looked down and noticed his participle was no longer dangling.  Adjective, she wrote next to it.  “Good,” he said.  “And the definition?”  “I- I don’t know, sir,” she admitted.  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, adjusting himself.  “I don’t think this written assessment will work, Tina.  But don’t worry – we can do a performance assessment.”  “Oh, thank you, sir!” she said.  “Yesssss,” he drawled.  “We’re going to do some daily oral language.” She turned around to look at him as he unbuckled his belt.

“Now that’s a proper noun,” she said, looking at his pulsing paste-maker.  “I bet you’ve got quite a portfolio, Principal Johnson.”  He chuckled.  “I think you’re getting it, Tina,” he said, knowing his semi-moist treat stick was also about to get it.  “You’re going to make an excellent subordinate clause.  And remember,” he said as she dropped to her knees, her succulent lips parting as she readied for her hot lunch: “Show your work.  If you do well on this assignment, we can move on to conjugation.”

Pursuit of Horniness

Memories are jigsaw puzzles with loads of missing and misshapen pieces.  I don’t remember what we were drinking that night (…were we drinking or smoking? Probably the latter…) or how we all got together; I remember vaguely what their apartment looked like, but have no idea what neighborhood it was in.  At some point, we – myself, a classmate from a writing class, his roommate, and a coworker on whom I had an immense crush – decided that playing strip Trivial Pursuit would be a smashing idea.  This is something I did often in my early twenties – strip board games with coworkers.  It was a surreal and exhilarating time, y’all.

The idea is this: Get an answer wrong, take off an item of clothing.  Get an answer right, put one on.  Play until someone loses all their clothes; everyone else is a winner.  I’m not a competitive person in general; once in a while the small and fierce competitor in a tiny, cobweb-covered corner of my brain comes out swinging, but I don’t think I tried particularly hard this night.

We continued playing until most or all of us were naked; the next thing I remember is my coworker going off with the roommate to his room while I straddled my classmate on his kitchen floor, my arms and legs wrapped around him, riding his dick while he fingered my ass.  I wasn’t even really attracted to him, though he was a good-looking guy; I was just mega-horny from being naked with my coworker.  Hearing her cries from the next room filled me with an even more eager lust, and I used my classmate’s cock to get off.

Not too long after – actually, who knows how long?  Time stands still when you’re stoned – they came out of the roommate’s room.  My classmate and I were still sitting on the floor, though not fucking anymore; my coworker came over to me, grabbed my hand, pulled me up, and walked me over to my classmate’s bedroom.  She dragged me in and locked the door behind us (to the sounds of muffled protests), then pushed me down on his bed.  Er – his mattress on the floor, in any case.  She spread my legs and went to town on my pussy, and I entered a dream-like state.  I don’t know if I came; I do know that it felt fucking amazing and that I wanted my face in her cunt.  I wanted my hands and mouth all over her body, really.  She told me later that I tasted like chocolate chip cookies (I wish!).

Chocolate, Chips, Cookie, Sweets, Pastry

Being tangled up with her in the dark, my heart pounding – kissing her and tasting my juices on her lips – was enough to confirm that yes, I was straight-up-and-down-the-line bisexual.  She wasn’t the first woman I’d slept with, but she was the first woman I had strong feelings for that I had.  She was also the first married woman that I had sex with.

That night – that life – seems a million miles away.  I see it through the prism of highways and oceans, fractured and foggy.  I kept in touch with my classmate and stayed with him in New Orleans while I looked for an apartment there, though we never had sex again; his roommate died young, which was devastating.  My coworker, whom I eventually came to love, got divorced and remarried and divorced again; the last time I saw her, she was preaching the gospel of Ayn Rand, and I haven’t spoken to her since.

I still love a good game of Trivial Pursuit more than any other board game; I don’t play very often these days, but when I do, my clothes stay on.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

 

 

Image taken from Pixabay (StockSnap)

Washing Station

We never expected them to be so red or so lustrous.  Walking along a burnt and dusty road, grateful to have finally left a trail of children behind us, we crested a hill overlooking a cerulean lake and noticed clusters of bushes littered with scarlet berries.  Neither of us had seen coffee cherries before and could only guess at what they were based solely on the fact that we were in a coffee-producing region.

Once we arrived at our guesthouse, the owner offered a tour of their coffee processing facility for a small fee; we gladly took the opportunity to learn more.  You rolled a cherry between your fingers before pressing it just hard enough so that juices seeped out slowly.   Watching your nimble fingers wheeling the berry until its seed poked out its shoulder, glistening and coy, I ripened.  You abruptly opened your mouth to make a joke about popping cherries, but thought better of it almost as soon as the thought had formulated.

We were disappointed by how the scent of coffee beans isn’t intoxicating until roasted, fascinated by the silky slime of the beans in their natural state (much like a skull sliced open to reveal a brain), delighted with the contrasting colors of the sloughed-off skins against their innards.  Having a tactile experience – any tactile experience – breeds my desire for more, and by the time I’d run my fingers through a scattering of beans left to dry, I was ready to feel all of your textures.  The cartilage maze of your ears, the soft spirals of your hair, your layers of blood-warmed skin covering taut muscles.

The countryside sleeps early – farmers who are used to a cock’s awakening have an internal clock that knocks them out as they lie – but we were buzzing all night.  Unable to sleep, we crept through rows of pale moon beans until we reached the shores of Lake Kivu below.  We’d intended to sit on the sand and canoodle a bit, but as soon as your lips touched mine, everything was on the table.  You slipped my Cool Max T-shirt and sports bra over my head, not put off by days of hiking stench; I slid my much-too-short pajama pants off your long legs, and we edged our way to the water.

We inched in together, but I was the first to submerge, diving in fingertips first, coming up to smooth my hair back and wipe the parasite-infested water from my eyes.  My breasts shone in the half moonlight – incentive enough for you to swim over to me to cup them lovingly in your massive hands.  You kissed my neck and I encircled your cock in my curling fingers, stroking it to the music in my head.  We glided deeper into the water, and I wrapped my legs around your waist.  You stood deep enough to allow you to grip my hips and pump my body along the length of your cock, the buoyancy of the water aiding your effort.  I tried to hold on, but your seal skin made me feel like a drunk girl on a mechanical bull.  My hips bucked this way and that, my hands fishtailing all over your back.

A sudden breeze chilled me; I flopped backward into the water, dolphin-kicking away toward the beach.  You followed, grabbing my ankle and dragging me back.  “Not so fast,” you said, wrapping your arms around me in a vice grip.  “You owe me one more kiss.”  I leaned in, soaking, til my lips were just grazing yours, and I breathed into you.  “Bring me back up that hill and I’ll give you much, much, more,” I replied, my promise fluttering in echoes, bouncing off the silent, drying beans which were winking at us under the moon.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked             

The Engineer and I both hiked the same trail in Rwanda, but not together; this is a fantasy of what I would have liked to happen had we been hiking in tandem.

 

Brought To My Senses

I close my eyes and think of scratching.  I see the pale skin and broad shoulders of my first love, the one who faced his back to me whenever we fell asleep together (his parents let me sleep in his bed with him when we were high school students, which I still find shockingly progressive) and asked me in a plaintive voice to scratch his back, followed by a relieved and happy sigh.

I feel my nails – always bare and cut short, but no less sharp – dig into the haunches of a dozen lovers, carried away with scraped-out longing for my legs to spread wider so they can be deeper inside of me.

I smell pine needles as bark scratches against my hip bones and hands while The Texan fucks me hard against a tree just off a hiking trail.  We can see a hiker walking by 150 meters away; we don’t stop.

I taste a lover’s cunt in my mouth as she begs me to scratch her, to bite her, to just fucking mark her in any way I can and god make it hard.  Make it hurt good.

I hear the sharp intake of my sub’s breath as he feels the tips of my steel claws, not knowing what they are or what I’m going to do with them.  I scratch them lightly up the inside of his thigh and punctuate his scrotum, walking up his balls with the tips.  I press them harder into him until he cries out – and then I press a bit harder.  I tell him to turn around and drag them slowly down his back, his ass, and hope that the marks vanish before he goes home.  Claws leave beautiful, precise marks – and you don’t need to press very hard to leave evidence.

I love having any kind of marks on my body, and scratch marks are no exception; when someone accidentally scratches me during sex and apologizes, I press their nails harder into my body and whisper, “I’m your canvas.  Paint me red.”