So, Fleshbot, one of my favorite keeping-up-with-sex-news blogs, has its own bi-weekly 'sex blog roundup', alternately moderated by Always Aroused Girl (of the eponymous blog) and Jefferson (of 'One Life, Take Two').
From the latest edition, I wanted to particularly point out to my readers this delightful story: "Irish Bitch" from Stations of the Cross.
A long read, compared to some, but worth every word, "Irish Bitch" tells the story of one Catholic tomboy's coming of age, her struggle between deep faith and deep passion, and the understanding of both that she comes to.
With some really fucking hot domination scenes along the way. I mean, really.
Enjoy it, folks, I sure did.
--Sugar
25 June 2008
Too late at night to be posting SUGASM #137
...but I am anyway.
Sugasm #137
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 #138? 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
I can only be what I am.
"It's strangely refreshing, to really submit and give up that control, and not have to make decisions."
Over the Edge
"He tells me to hold still, in that soft, controlling voice of his."
A Story Told Out of Order and Out of Character - Part 4
"You thought you could just come to my room and tease me?"
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor's Choice
A former slut examined
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.)
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
2 Naked filthy bitches spanked, caned and fucked!
Beautiful Smile
Bedroom Radio #17: Pure Pleasure and i-Lube plus Listener Feedback
Free Euro Blonde Adult Chat Video
Gotta turn the naughty on -HNT
Half-Nekkid Fun With Mirrors
Happy HNT!
Mz. Berlin Has Never Looked Hotter Than She Does In This Collar
Mz Berlin, Satine Phoenix, and Hot Wax
Natasha - I want your sex
The Outfit Kris Picked
(Pic) fun at glory hole
Ron Jeremy sticks dirty fingers in her pussy
Sex Advice
Fundamentals of Edging for Newly Chronic Masturbators
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
My favorite shower: A Review
Pirate porn review
Puffy Leather Hood
Review: Cascade Wand
TES Fest 2008 - Celebrating the Red, White (Black) & Blue in Style!
Sex Work
Captain's Log: Moondancing With Adam Duritz And The Dirtiest Girl In Porn (Yikes!)
Funny email
Happiness Through Porn
Princess Pussy Whipped!!
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Are You a Pickup Artist?
The cable guy, the guest and Me
Doing it DOGGY STYLLEEE....arf arf
From Tomboys To Fab Femme Girls-Talkes From Toronto, Part 1
How to Enjoy the Single (And Non-Dating) Life
I Think I Have A Crush on Lochai
The Other Woman's Other Men
To be a woman
Sex Humor
It DOES all sound the same!
"My first time" in a men's world
Erotic Writing and Experiences
The ___ ___ war
Anal Sex from a Female Perspective
Content
Let's talk semantics
More Mayo!
Once Upon a Time. Confession #70
Professor of Sexual Education
Public sex
Sex, The Heart, and, The Body, Electric
Totally Tuesday
Sex & Politics
Are dominants really just chauvinistic, anti-feminists?
Believing the Victim
A Straight Woman Is Just a Sober Bisexual
BDSM & Fetish
Bath time spanking
Captive in the jungle
Catalina Loves Topping A Couple With Her Master
The Evolution of My Slut - An Update And A Chat With r
Fetish Friday - Watersports
i am my Master's slut
Jude
The Lilith Obsession, Part the Second
A minor adjustment and an end to the torment (for now)
The Perfect Cure for Grumpyness
A sexual dream
Sgt. Major makes Claire Adams Submit and Cum on Backdoor Bondage
Twenty Questions #6: Dominate or Be Dominated?
Wild Weekend: Day 3
20 June 2008
Sharing some gorgeous art.
Found via Warren Ellis' blog:
...from this Flickr link, apparently based on this person who I unfortunately still know nothing about as I don't read enough Spanish. Shame on me.
...from this Flickr link, apparently based on this person who I unfortunately still know nothing about as I don't read enough Spanish. Shame on me.
18 June 2008
I inspired creativity! I'm pretty sure I get glamour for that.
(And if you understand the title of this post, now you know what a geek I am.)
So not only did I get Editor's Choice in Sugasm #136 - which is completely awesome - but I find out this morning that Em of Bloody Mysteries was inspired by "The Source of All Waters" enough to write this beautiful poem.
So not only did I get Editor's Choice in Sugasm #136 - which is completely awesome - but I find out this morning that Em of Bloody Mysteries was inspired by "The Source of All Waters" enough to write this beautiful poem.
17 June 2008
Easy like...um, Tuesday evening: Sugasm #136
Sugasm #136
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 #137? 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
69
"Frozen, I wait for your next move."
Balanced on the tip of my tongue
"Pushing her into the bedroom, I stripped her bare swiftly, laid her out on the bed."
Impertinent Question: Do You Enjoy Spanking?
"That's what we call Wednesday night!"
Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank
Editor's Choice
The Source of All Waters
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
He loves me
Intimacy and BDSM
The Lilith Obsession, Part the First
Mr. and Mrs. Kink's Unbelievably Good Sex Last Night
Online Auction Snafu - F/m Spanking Pics
Other World Kingdom visit - Part 7
r's naughty thoughts on submission, fetishes, and enemas
Raw
ThunderFuck
Vacation story
Weekends. part 1
Why I've Never Gone To A Pro-Domme..Why I Might Someday
Sex & Politics
Condoms for Everybody! No?
To Choke a Chicken
Erotic Writing and Experiences
3 days, 3 guys (Part 1)
Catalina loves Oral Sex With Mr. F
A Day at the Fair
Hot Hotel Bang: Key West
In Which Penny Receives Kisses That Exceed Expectations
My Usual Friday
Proudly fucked at the pride
NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
And the Award for Most Beautiful Breasts in the World Goes To...
Fetish Model Charlotte Brooke In Serious Encasement, Full Enclosure, Gas Mask Scene
January Seraph in Corset and Collar
Half-Nekkid in a New Corset
I Love Amsterdam girls alone on video
Kim Sharma Looking Sexy in Chemise and Tiny Shorts
Live hidden Carmen gets wet in Zoo Promo
Making Porn With Nikki On The Lord's Day
Mz. Berlin In The Sun With The Family
One Tuff Babe -HNT
Sex And The Kitty
Toy Time
Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Asian Fetish Model Jandi Lin, Sarah Jane Ceylon,and Mistress Claire Adams Get Fucked Up On Device Bondage
Book Review: Jenny Block's Open
German Porn
I Can't Stand "Sex And The City"
PullJoy© Book Review: Don't Use My Sweater Like a Towel
Review of Astro Vibe
Sex News Roundup
Sex Work
Princess Back Online!!
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Desire Its Cascading Flaming Passion to a trickling flicker
Finishing with a Bang
Letting Go
Shopping basket
Why do you Love "The City" So Much(with a twist to the story)??
Sex Advice
The sofa-sexual masturbator: couch copulation and furniture fucking examined.
09 June 2008
The Source of All Waters
You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
(Ranier Maria Rilke - Rilke's Book of Hours - Love Poems to God)
Aini argues fiercely in her liquid-accented English, and her hands dance in rythm, circumscribing the boundary of her ideas. Giving them shape, sculpting maths or philosophy or the political structure of Kenyan street gangs. It makes me so happy to share classes with her.
When she is very passionate about a topic she will go up to the whiteboard, pull back the long sleeves meant to shield her from the lustful eyes of men, and write as she talks. Her mind is always on display, her body almost never; she doesn't know how precious these glimpses are to me. I'm afraid that, if I ever tell her, she'll stop, so I haven't.
I share a small apartment off-campus with two other students, a political science major and a girl who can't decide between statistics and the cello; some weekends we have groups over, a roomful of brilliance like the old French salons, and Aini comes with two or three other girls; they are mysterious shadows on their way up the street, clustered together, silent, till they pass our doorway and immediately shed scarves and robes and soft outdoor voices. They're fellow students, or wives and daughters of men who work at the embassy. Talking for hours in birdsong voices. Religion, politics, empowerment, sex. They laugh together, like music, and sometimes they stand at the balcony and smoke, turned inward so no one will see their faces from the street.
Sometimes Aini stays when they leave.
I put clean sheets on my little twin bed while she showers, and the other girls go home or vanish into their rooms, into the privacy of headphones and university-funded internet connections. (The cellist/statictician has been dating a British law student via Second Life for a year now.)
Water beads gleam like onyx in her black hair when Aini comes back to me, locking my bedroom door behind her.
I keep a bottle of oil in my closet; sandalwood and rose in a base of almond, a warm sweet blend that mixes well with the scent of her skin. She lies supine across my bed and closes her dark eyes, relaxing by degrees while I revel in her body, comparing firm musculature of calf and thigh to the pillowed luxury of her belly, the graceful, architectural curve of her ribcage. She is warm, warmer than I am, and her skin gleams after my hands pass over it, oiled mahogany, irresistable. The rosy-brown aureola surrounding her tiny nipples crinkle when I let my fingertips skirt them. Her breath slows, deep and steady, belied by flushed cheeks, by the subtle shivering of her body beneath mine.
She rolls onto her belly for me with a wordless sigh, giving me the violin curve of her back to explore; perfect and enticing, warm skin contrasted with the cool shadows between her thighs. She is sculpture. I imagine her body adorning some ancient temple, decked in strings of flowers and silver bells. Curled around the rampant form of a nameless god in carnal embrace.
I trace lines up either side of her backbone, to the spot where texture begins to change under my fingertips. It's high on her left shoulderblade. At first they look like pale freckles, then ragged patches; moving higher they join into a blank pale stretch of scar, like tan paint splashed across her body. This stole of wounded flesh covers almost her entire left shoulder, the nape of her neck, stretching up into her hairline in fingers of emptiness where her dark hair will never grow again.
This rebuilt tissue is fragile, and I take my time, relearning it; massage helps keep it supple. There is no pain, except in her mind; all the nerves were burnt away. She trembles under my hands regardless.
Finally I take the tiny, flower-like remnant of her left ear between thumb and forefinger. As gently as you would a baby's. Caressing the curve doctors were able to reconstruct. Her high cheekbone bears a tiny splash of scar, a spot like an antique beauty mark; she is lucky, she told me once, that the acid did not splash more, that she turned to watch a cat run across the street. If her attacker - she has never named him to me, if she ever knew his name - had succeeded, she would be blind, or dead.
Instead she has most of her hearing, scarred skin that can be covered with modest clothing, and the way she shivers when I touch her like this.
Finished, I lie beside her, and we entwine; the slick oil spreads over my skin, turning us to silk against each other. Her mouth finds mine with a passion that always surprises me, and we taste each other's soft cries as her hands begin a shamelessly carnal exploration of my body. Like, yet unlike. I love the contrast of her skin against mine, dark and pale, and the gentle way she presses her fingertips between my labia, finding slick wetness not so different from the oil that covers us.
I push against her softness, reaching for my climax; caught in her smiling eyes. She likes to tease me with it, circling my swollen clit as slowly as she can, little fluttering curls of her long fingers inside me that make me cry and beg.
Eventually, she gives me her mouth, tender catlike licks around and over my pussy, finding every tender spot again and again. She wraps her arms around my hips and holds me still when I finally come, when I stretch my legs out stiff and grip the sheets tight in both hands.
Finding her climax is different, as everything about her is different; Aini has been hurt in so many ways. It astonishes me that she can be so brave, both to show me her difference, and to hold me afterwards when I cried, angry and ashamed that I had to be comforted, instead of giving her comfort. But she is still beautiful. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
We had to figure out her pleasure together; the structure of a woman's clitoral anatomy is mostly beneath the surface, so that while much was taken from her - in an act I can hardly bear to imagine - she can still be brought to climax. One of the many reasons I love living in the future; there is a world of powerful electronic devices, easily obtainable, devoted to pleasure. I curl one arm beneath the small of her back and kiss the soft swell of her stomach, cradling our toy between her tiny labia with my other hand, and slowly rock it against her, feeling each little gush of moisture, the way her thighs tremble, the soft growling cries she makes as we climb this beautiful mountain again - again - moving the little control wheel under my thumb to give her more and more, and I tell her how beautiful she is, I tell her she is loved.
Seeing Aini come is like watching her suddenly wake from a deep and dreamless sleep.
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:
(Ranier Maria Rilke - Rilke's Book of Hours - Love Poems to God)
Aini argues fiercely in her liquid-accented English, and her hands dance in rythm, circumscribing the boundary of her ideas. Giving them shape, sculpting maths or philosophy or the political structure of Kenyan street gangs. It makes me so happy to share classes with her.
When she is very passionate about a topic she will go up to the whiteboard, pull back the long sleeves meant to shield her from the lustful eyes of men, and write as she talks. Her mind is always on display, her body almost never; she doesn't know how precious these glimpses are to me. I'm afraid that, if I ever tell her, she'll stop, so I haven't.
I share a small apartment off-campus with two other students, a political science major and a girl who can't decide between statistics and the cello; some weekends we have groups over, a roomful of brilliance like the old French salons, and Aini comes with two or three other girls; they are mysterious shadows on their way up the street, clustered together, silent, till they pass our doorway and immediately shed scarves and robes and soft outdoor voices. They're fellow students, or wives and daughters of men who work at the embassy. Talking for hours in birdsong voices. Religion, politics, empowerment, sex. They laugh together, like music, and sometimes they stand at the balcony and smoke, turned inward so no one will see their faces from the street.
Sometimes Aini stays when they leave.
I put clean sheets on my little twin bed while she showers, and the other girls go home or vanish into their rooms, into the privacy of headphones and university-funded internet connections. (The cellist/statictician has been dating a British law student via Second Life for a year now.)
Water beads gleam like onyx in her black hair when Aini comes back to me, locking my bedroom door behind her.
I keep a bottle of oil in my closet; sandalwood and rose in a base of almond, a warm sweet blend that mixes well with the scent of her skin. She lies supine across my bed and closes her dark eyes, relaxing by degrees while I revel in her body, comparing firm musculature of calf and thigh to the pillowed luxury of her belly, the graceful, architectural curve of her ribcage. She is warm, warmer than I am, and her skin gleams after my hands pass over it, oiled mahogany, irresistable. The rosy-brown aureola surrounding her tiny nipples crinkle when I let my fingertips skirt them. Her breath slows, deep and steady, belied by flushed cheeks, by the subtle shivering of her body beneath mine.
She rolls onto her belly for me with a wordless sigh, giving me the violin curve of her back to explore; perfect and enticing, warm skin contrasted with the cool shadows between her thighs. She is sculpture. I imagine her body adorning some ancient temple, decked in strings of flowers and silver bells. Curled around the rampant form of a nameless god in carnal embrace.
I trace lines up either side of her backbone, to the spot where texture begins to change under my fingertips. It's high on her left shoulderblade. At first they look like pale freckles, then ragged patches; moving higher they join into a blank pale stretch of scar, like tan paint splashed across her body. This stole of wounded flesh covers almost her entire left shoulder, the nape of her neck, stretching up into her hairline in fingers of emptiness where her dark hair will never grow again.
This rebuilt tissue is fragile, and I take my time, relearning it; massage helps keep it supple. There is no pain, except in her mind; all the nerves were burnt away. She trembles under my hands regardless.
Finally I take the tiny, flower-like remnant of her left ear between thumb and forefinger. As gently as you would a baby's. Caressing the curve doctors were able to reconstruct. Her high cheekbone bears a tiny splash of scar, a spot like an antique beauty mark; she is lucky, she told me once, that the acid did not splash more, that she turned to watch a cat run across the street. If her attacker - she has never named him to me, if she ever knew his name - had succeeded, she would be blind, or dead.
Instead she has most of her hearing, scarred skin that can be covered with modest clothing, and the way she shivers when I touch her like this.
Finished, I lie beside her, and we entwine; the slick oil spreads over my skin, turning us to silk against each other. Her mouth finds mine with a passion that always surprises me, and we taste each other's soft cries as her hands begin a shamelessly carnal exploration of my body. Like, yet unlike. I love the contrast of her skin against mine, dark and pale, and the gentle way she presses her fingertips between my labia, finding slick wetness not so different from the oil that covers us.
I push against her softness, reaching for my climax; caught in her smiling eyes. She likes to tease me with it, circling my swollen clit as slowly as she can, little fluttering curls of her long fingers inside me that make me cry and beg.
Eventually, she gives me her mouth, tender catlike licks around and over my pussy, finding every tender spot again and again. She wraps her arms around my hips and holds me still when I finally come, when I stretch my legs out stiff and grip the sheets tight in both hands.
Finding her climax is different, as everything about her is different; Aini has been hurt in so many ways. It astonishes me that she can be so brave, both to show me her difference, and to hold me afterwards when I cried, angry and ashamed that I had to be comforted, instead of giving her comfort. But she is still beautiful. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
We had to figure out her pleasure together; the structure of a woman's clitoral anatomy is mostly beneath the surface, so that while much was taken from her - in an act I can hardly bear to imagine - she can still be brought to climax. One of the many reasons I love living in the future; there is a world of powerful electronic devices, easily obtainable, devoted to pleasure. I curl one arm beneath the small of her back and kiss the soft swell of her stomach, cradling our toy between her tiny labia with my other hand, and slowly rock it against her, feeling each little gush of moisture, the way her thighs tremble, the soft growling cries she makes as we climb this beautiful mountain again - again - moving the little control wheel under my thumb to give her more and more, and I tell her how beautiful she is, I tell her she is loved.
Seeing Aini come is like watching her suddenly wake from a deep and dreamless sleep.
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