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.”

 

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Roses Are Red

The Engineer sent me an obscenely big bouquet of flowers on Valentine’s Day; they’re starting to fall apart, so I thought I’d put the petals to good use.

Sinful Sunday

Privates of the Caribbean*

“Babe, can I talk to you about something?” asked The Engineer in a small and hesitant voice on the phone yesterday.  As this particular tone is normally reserved for times when he’s feeling anxious, hurt, or insecure, I automatically said, “Yes, of course.”  And then he dropped something completely out of the blue on me: He’d just gone on Twitter to delete his account, and he noticed that Twitter had recommended my blog account to him as a potential account to follow.

He knows that I write a sex blog; I send him what I write about us before I post it, and though I’ve told him that he’s free to read it, he’s chosen not to as he doesn’t want to read about my past partners in graphic detail.  He’s been careful to respect my privacy, so being confronted with my Tweets freaked him out a bit – and completely fucking unnerved me.  Not because it’s him, but because… how the fuck did my blog account show up on his Twitter?!?!?!?!?  It left me wondering: Since I’ve been using the same browser for both my personal and my blog email (a mistake which I have since rectified), is Twitter trawling my personal email account for contacts unbeknownst to me?  Who’s next?  My close friends?  My family?  My coworkers?

Secret, Top, Stamp, Spy, Army, Military

I got my first smart phone after I started writing the blog; I remembered early on in blogging that Cammies had posted a Tweet about how Twitter automatically sent out a suggestion to follow her blog account to every contact on her phone when she used it – it was at that point that I knew I would never, ever use my phone to do anything blog-related.  I use strict privacy settings on my browsers, I don’t use Facebook at all because I’m anxious about my privacy, and… for some reason I didn’t bother to check the privacy settings on Twitter when I signed up for it.  I’ve since marked that I don’t want my account suggested based on email, but I’ve also found out that Twitter makes suggestions for accounts to follow based on physical proximity, meaning that I was likely suggested to The Engineer because I was blogging at his apartment when I went to visit last fall. And if so… does that mean that anyone who opens Twitter on their phone at my house will see my blog account recommended to them?  That seems super fucking creepy and invasive.

As you may know if you follow sex news, teachers are routinely fired for being normal human beings with personal lives.  I love that there are sex bloggers who are completely out, but if I want to continue being an educator of young people, that’s not an option for me.  Since I started writing the blog, I’ve always felt pretty safe about avoiding being discovered by people I don’t want discovering me, and well… I don’t feel safe anymore.  If you blog anonymously, what do you do to protect the privacy of your identity?

 

*First of all, GOD I HOPE THIS IS A PORN TITLE.  Second of all, I know the post title has nothing to do with the content, but since this week’s Wicked Wednesday theme is pirates and I’m not writing a piece of pirate-themed erotica, this was the least I could do.  😀

Elust 103

Photo courtesy of Tits and Test Tubes

Welcome to Elust 103

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 #104 Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Friend and The Acquaintance

The dress rehearsal

Lake Malawi

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Color Me Kinky

A Slow Burn on a Summer Night.

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Voodoo Me

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too

Continue reading “Elust 103”

Second Time Around

When I was teaching in Korea, I noticed a large cultural difference in terms of how students would address creative questions.  This became very apparent when I asked my university students the following question:

“If you could travel back in time, when and where would you go?”

In the US, students might answer that they would go see ancient Egypt, dinosaurs in the Jurassic period, or Woodstock.  My Korean students, however, would always – without fail – tell me that they would revisit a time in their own life in order to change it (usually to study more or take a test over!) or return to an age when they had more free time.  It’s because of their answers that this idea popped into my head.

Pocket Watch, Clock, Time, Old

If I could go back in time, where and when would I go, professor?  That’s a hard question.  Maybe you want me to say something about some big historical event or a famous person I might meet, but to be frank, there are moments in my life I want to go back to.  Missed opportunities.  Moments of regret.  No, not the chance to study abroad or take more advanced classes.  The chance to have more lovers.  You’re blushing, professor.  No need; I am just answering your question.

Let me give you an example.  You always ask us to give examples to show our answers, right?  So here’s mine.  Last summer, I took a trip to Europe with Jun to celebrate our last year in university; you remember me talking about this before.  We were at a hof one night in Zurich talking to a small group of Swiss women; Jun wasn’t feeling well and went home early, but I stayed.  I was left with two women, both so beautiful.  They had shiny hair, soft skin, perfect teeth.  They were young like us, and we talked about the difficulties of expressing our thoughts in English.  Well, to make a long story short – we all drank many beers, and these girls started kissing each other.  I had never seen that before; there are gays here, but they hide.  I watched them, so surprised – and so… well, it was exciting.

One of them took my hand and leaned in to my ear; she asked if I would come back to their apartment with them.  I had never done sex with one person, and here were two girls asking me to come with them!  Professor, I was so scared that I couldn’t.  I was afraid that I would be bad at it.  That they would laugh at me.  Now, I regret that.  So to answer your question, professor, if I could go back in time, I would say to those two Swiss women, “Yes.  I will come with you.  But I am inexperienced, and I need guidance.”  They would say to me, “Yes, we will help you.”  They would take me home and teach me everything.

I would give them as much pleasure as they wanted, and I would touch them the way they wanted me to touch them.  I would lie back and let them touch me and kiss me, wondering about my luck.  I would have – what is the expression you taught us? – seized the day.  Professor, I don’t want to say too much, because you seem uncomfortable.  But in my mind, I live that night every night.  If I had a time machine, I would make a girlfriend in my first year instead of getting high test scores.  I would kiss many girls on my trip.  And I would enjoy my time with the two women I dream about every night.

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

In Suspense

I was finally put into full rope suspension for the first time last fall; it was comfortable and calming, and the mistress who bound and hoisted me was brilliant (she’s a friend, so I may be biased).  Can’t wait to do this again someday!

P.S.  Many of you noted in the comments that you were interested in being suspended; I asked Cammies on the Floor for a piece of advice or a tip I could put on the website for folks who were interested, and here’s what she wrote: “Going to rope practice classes and socials is the best way to meet someone. Being a practice bottom isn’t very fun, but it’s important to a top and segways into knowing a top well enough to suspend.”

Sinful Sunday

Grown

My freshman year in high school, my closest friend (on whom I had an immense crush) and I walked through the halls, clicking away on the tiles with our brand-new, matching, shiny white gogo boots.  We wore miniskirts and lip gloss; we linked arms and sashayed into rooms like we owned the joint.  It wasn’t just that the heels on the boots made our legs more shapely; it was the way we had to bend down to zip and unzip them*, the way the line of the boot draws the eye upward, the way poise is affected by confidence is affected by poise.  A feedback loop.  I felt untouchable – an intoxicating emotion for a fifteen year-old who criticizes and doubts everything about herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My father was in the military for thirty years, so I’ve always associated boots with power.  When he would head off for weekend or summer trainings, he shined his boots beforehand ‘til they glowed like fresh ink on a typewriter page.  He laced them lightning quick, ready to go in an instant in case of emergency.  When I smell shoe polish, I think of his nimble fingers pulling the strings just so and whipping them around hooks before tying bunny ears.  There are pictures of me as a toddler stomping around the house in his big black boots – laces undone, dragging on the floor.  I was in Nepal on a hike when I realized that I lace and unlace my boots just like he used to, and it made me cry in the middle of the mountains.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve worn boots as both a domme and sub in session; I’m a bottom by nature, and it can be difficult for me to inhabit a dominant headspace.  Attire makes a huge difference!  I know that a true dominant can do all their domly domming no matter what they’re wearing, but… I’m just not a top.  Wearing boots is the number one thing – at least from a physical standpoint – that helps me get into a dominant role.  Be it cowboy boots used to step on someone’s dick (love that guy), heavy, thigh-high black vinyl boots being worshipped by a man on his hands and knees, or – any boots, really – used to boost my height and assertiveness, boots make me feel in command.  Self-possessed.  A force to be reckoned with*.  I feel like my fifteen year-old self: swaying my hips, begging to be looked at, and acting grown up – not even really knowing what that means.

*…or a snow bunny.

*

 

Epicurean

I love the idea of this being the first thing The Engineer sees when he gets home from work someday – but a much more elaborate and luxurious spread than this, complete with a candelabra and a vintage lace peignoir (I wouldn’t consider these items to actually be epicurean, but I worked with what I had!).  I want to make a complete mess with him on a hard dining room table.

On a completely unrelated note, E is the best! letter! ever! for a photo prompt (all those exquisite adjectives)… there were a million ideas that I didn’t have the time or resources to follow through with.  If anyone can tell me how to overlay one image on another without Adobe Photoshop, please let me know in the comments!

Sinful Sunday