Eye-Opener

With the exception of some spanking, light bondage, and role playing in my university (er… high school) relationships, my first introduction to BDSM was Mistress Natasha.  She was the real deal.  I went to a swinger’s club a few times when I lived in New Orleans – more out of curiosity than a desire to engage.  When I heard from a go-go girl there that a professional dominatrix came in mid-week to do fifteen-minute sessions with members, my eyes grew as big as saucers.  I. Couldn’t. Wait.

She was tall – at least a good six inches taller than me.  Then again, it could have been the boots.  She had long, swinging hair and wore all black – and she was stunning.  She moved gracefully and spoke slowly and deliberately, her eyes feline and surrounded by liquid coal.

I asked her if she would do a session with me; yes, she said, as long as I didn’t mind spectators.  I gave my consent; she took me into a dark room the size of a walk-in closet that had a St. Anthony’s cross against the back wall.  She instructed me to take my clothes off, fold them, and put them in a neat pile in the corner. Watch, too, she said – leaving a watch on is just tacky.  That stuck in my memory for years and was something I would go on to tell my own clients.  My heels, she said, could stay on.

She told me to press myself face-forward against the cross, to which she bound me with leather restraints.  The cross felt cool and reassuring against my skin.  I was too giddy to be nervous – feeling her soft but sure hands against my wrists and ankles filled me with exhilaration and anticipation.  I remember the first time the big, thuddy flogger hit my back; it felt glorious.  It felt like waking up.

She flogged me and ran her hands over my back and bottom, soothing my pink skin.  She scratched me and whispered dirty words in my ears.  She had my rapt attention even though I felt like I was dreaming, and when she took me down from the cross and told me to get on my hands and knees, I was gutted to be almost finished and also relished being told what to do by a woman so confident in knowing what she wanted.  She poured hot wax on me, which rolled down my back and pooled just above my ass, before telling me to kiss her boots – which I gladly did.  I thanked her for her time and told her how much I enjoyed the session; I was so completely riled up by it that I grabbed the woman I brought with me and dragged her into a private room to ravage her.

In my relationships, I’m a switch.  I can play either role and feel comfortable in both, but in my heart of hearts – in my fantasies – I’m pure bottom.  Not seriously masochistic and not truly submissive (I’m more likely to say “Fuck off” than “Yes, sir,” if the wrong person tries to tell me what to do), but for sure a bottom.  Mistress Natasha really opened that door for me, and I’m forever grateful.

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Switch

I like scenes like this: First, I’m told that (s)he knows I have done something wrong; my behavior necessitates some kind of reprimand.  But (s)he understands – we all make mistakes.  Maybe there’s something I can do to help sweep this situation under the rug.  Mum’s the word.

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I’m smarter than (s)he bargained for, however; I’ve got dirt, too.  After relishing every sting and burn of my supposed punishment, I turn the tables.  I, too, have a strong hand and a desire to play.

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I don’t think we’re quite finished here, I say, and smile.  It’s going to be a while.

Sinful Sunday

Elust 88

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Photo courtesy of Miss Scarlet Writes

Welcome to Elust 88

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #89 Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Heart stabbing

Redemption: The Sex Goddess Project

Exhibitionish

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

An Open Letter To That Cunnilingus Post

I Found Myself Over His Knee

 

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Fiction

Overlook
The Haunting of Iris Day
MERMAID??? Wicked Wednesday #229
Fear, Scents and Sounds
Lady Amore
love is love
Spray
Her Struggle
The New Principal

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Evolving Landscapes
Trust in Me
15 BEST Things About Giving Blowjobs!
With a rebel yell
What lie do you need to hear so we can Fuck?

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Brush
Tasked with asking for what I need
How Old Is Too Old For Wild Lovemaking?
Brass In Pocket
An Unstated Predicament
California Cuisine
Krystal’s First Pegging
Struggling

 

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

That Adult Bookstore Just Outside Town
Creature of the night
MISTRESS IN A DRESS – or out of it
Come Here. I want to Taste You
Terror of the cane! How to make caning sexy

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

11 Signs You Might Be a Side Guy

 

Writing About Writing

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

 

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One Down

Still in a sex haze from a long, giddy night of pot and orgasms that stretched into a morning of devouring all the leftovers in my flat before devouring each other, I lie silent for a minute, listening to the door click behind him as his footsteps run down my stairs outside.  Everything is perfectly still and calm; I can hear birds chirping and see the first rays of sun starting to penetrate the sky.  It’s too early for traffic – and besides, no one would be out on a Sunday morning.  Except him.  Perhaps whistling while he walks; perhaps listening to music.  Definitely thinking about the way I taste.

I reach into my nightstand drawer and pull out a Batman stationery pad, flipping it open to the first page on which I’ve written the beginning of a list:

Double butt plug

Saran wrap fuck

Bound, spread-eagle fuck

Pegging…

The list goes on.  I’d written it after a long conversation we’d had a few weeks prior in which we spent hours talking dirty about the things we wanted to do together.  I had snapped a quick photo of it with my phone, sending it to him as a kind reminder; sure, there were things I had in a mental life-long fucket list of unlikely situations, but he was a rare and beautiful partner: the kind I could suggest any fantasy to, knowing he’d be game.  I wanted to have a special fucket list for us. 

I grab a pen and with a steady hand cross off the phrase “good ol’-fashioned anal” before ripping the sheet of paper out of the pad and neatly folding it into its own envelope.  I write his address on the cover and put it aside for the moment, relishing the memory of sitting on top of him in the dark, his breathing shallow and yearning, as I lowered myself slowly onto his cock. I had slid back up almost immediately for more lube; once that was in place, delightfully messy and slippery, I found it much easier to slip him inside of me.  I could feel every throbbing vein on his cock against my tight muscles; I turned on a wand and sat on him, telling him to hold still while I brought myself to climax.  Once I’d come, my whole body relaxed, and I could start gliding along his cock – back and forth until I felt comfortable.  Until I wanted it deeper.  Until I came again, my whole pelvic floor contracting against him – which is when he lost it, moaning a guttural moan I’d never heard before. One of desperate release drawn out of him like a spirit.

My hunger not quite satisfied, I roll out of bed, throw on some sweats, and settle on grabbing a bagel down the street.  I clip our list onto the mailbox on my way out the door for the mail carrier to pick up the next day and giggle at the thought of her opening it or trying to use the light to see what’s inside.  On the way, I hear dull church bells ring in the distance, and once again I think of him; I hope he’s made it on time.

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

Salmon

Today was an emotionally difficult one.  I woke up like so many others this morning with a heaviness in my heart and gut that’s not likely to disappear for a while.

A lot of folks have written long-form pieces on the misogyny, white supremacy, xenophobia, and entitlement that have fueled the Drumpf campaign; that’s not what I want to write about here because so many people are speaking about it more eloquently than I can.

But I can speak to this: with a vice president coming into office who has done everything possible to roll back Roe vs. Wade in his state, reduce women’s access to contraception and reproductive health, and who has tried to criminalize miscarriage – now in a national position of power with no one to check that power – our reproductive rights are genuinely in a precarious position.

In Indiana, minors must have parental permission to get a prescription for birth control.  Sex education isn’t required and if it is taught, abstinence must be stressed.  Teaching about contraception is NOT required.  There are no anti-discrimination laws or anti-bullying laws in schools based on sexual orientation or gender identity, and there’s no statewide hate crime law.*  Much has been said about Indiana’s draconian measures to restrict abortion and its attempt to encourage discrimination against same-sex couples; this is the man who will be tasked with helping to choose our next secretaries of health and human services and education.  Who will be partially responsible for nominating the next Supreme Court justice.

Furthermore, knowledge itself is dangerous to Drumpf.  The more educated people are, the less likely they were to vote for him.  As an educator, I’m nervous not only about the future of teachers’ unions and science and history textbooks, but about an administrative attack on higher education and knowledge as a whole.

There are many who joke about leaving the US for greener pastures; I certainly sympathize with that sentiment.  I’m swimming upstream, though.  After seven years of living as a resident alien in another country, I’m coming home.  I was already planning on this well before the election, but after yesterday, my feeling that now is the right time is much stronger.  I can’t make my voice heard from South Korea.  I cannot march, I cannot organize, I cannot be an advocate or active ally for young people and communities who lack access to resources.  There are trying times ahead, and it’s time to jump in with both feet.

#wewontgoback

*This information comes from Sex, Etc., which I highly recommend you check out for state-by-state information on laws concerned with birth control, abortion, and sex education.

 

One Step Forward…

I grabbed his face and kissed him, my sweaty body sticking to his, knees bent and pressed deep into my couch cushions on the sides of his thighs.

“I need a break,” I said, and hopped off, turning on my heel to head toward the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, grabbing my hips and pulling me back down onto his lap.

“Yes!” I said, laughing, squirming, while he held me firmly in place.  I finally managed to wiggle down to the floor, where I threw myself forward, ready to take off – but he was quick.  He grabbed my biceps and held me there.  “Where are you going?” he asked with amusement.

“I have to pee!  Let me go!” I said, still laughing.  “Okay,” he said, briefly letting go of my arms for a moment.  As soon as I moved my arm forward onto the floor in front of me, however, he had grabbed my leg and dragged me back a few inches.

What ensued was me slowly making my way to the bathroom; I would crawl a foot forward and he would pull me back six inches.  I’d move, he’d drag.  I was no longer focused on my bladder – now we were playing a game.  The Texan is a foot taller than me and considerably heavier; the first time we wrestled, he was surprised at how long I could hold him down.  But now he was the one towering above me, letting me think I could almost make it before making sure I couldn’t.  And it was fucking hot.  What needed a respite before now re-lubricated at the struggle.  I wanted him to drag me, to pull me, to hold me down and immobilize me.  I strove to inch forward harder so he could pull me back just as hard.  It was exhausting, but it felt like much-needed relief in some way.

It triggered something in him that opened up to me that night.  In bed, in the dark, I held him tight; he told me some really personal things and asked me deep questions.  I felt more connected to him than I ever had.  It was like that struggle to move different directions had snapped us both into place next to each other, holding fast, at least for the night.

Broad Stripes

Alex heard the crop swish through the air before he felt it.  That sound alone was enough to make his cock twitch – or at least it would be, if it weren’t in a cage.  He wanted to say as much, but all he could do was groan with satisfaction as it came down hard on his left cheek.

“I think I’ll give you nice, even stripes today,” Sir said as he walked around the back of Alex’s legs, perched on tip toes to strain his balance against the bench he was bent over.  Alex’s heart pounded at the thought of the long, beautiful red marks coloring his bottom.  Sir hit his right cheek with force.  He tensed briefly, then allowed the endorphins to flow through him like a full-bodied pinot.

Sir hit him again slightly lower than before, then circled around front this time, the bulge of his cock visible through his trousers.  Alex felt him lightly tap the crop against his pale flesh like a golfer practicing her swing before following through.  He wanted to be exact in lining up the stripes; Alex grinned at the thought of his perfectionist tendencies, a droplet of drool slipping around the edge of his ball gag.

Thwack.  Another stripe.  An inch down.  Thwack!  Another.  Alex heard footsteps before once again feeling the light tapping of leather on his skin.  His eyes were now closed, his breathing even, his muscles starting to relax.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Sir said out of the blue, bringing Alex out of his reverie.  Alex kicked up a hairy right leg behind him; Sir removed his gag.

“What happened?” he asked, still in a state of calm content.

“That bruise on your left hip that’s been changing color – it’s purple now.”

“Great!” said Alex.  “But why the surprise?”

“Congratulations,” Sir said. “Your ass is an American flag.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so patriotic before.”  Before Alex could get the loud laugh all the way out of his body that burst forth from his gut, Sir had managed to get the gag back in place and the laugh was held inside, ready to come out later.  For now, there was more work to be done.

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