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.”


I’m Not Irish (But Kiss Me Anyway)

A very happy St. Pat’s weekend to you all, and more importantly – a very happy Eroticon!  Hope everyone is having an amazing time and I wish I could be there with all of you. xx

Sinful Sunday

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.”


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

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