Sugarmoon

2010-07-06T20:24:00.001-05:00

Holy crap, has it really been 2 years? O.o

A post-Sugasm, personal story recommendation.

2008-06-25T00:16:00.003-05:00

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

Too late at night to be posting SUGASM #137

2008-06-25T00:10:00.004-05:00

...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

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Sharing some gorgeous art.

2008-06-20T21:04:00.003-05:00

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.

I inspired creativity! I'm pretty sure I get glamour for that.

2008-06-18T17:42:00.002-05:00

(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.

Easy like...um, Tuesday evening: Sugasm #136

2008-06-17T18:24:00.000-05:00

Sugasm #136

Nun porn courtesy of Catalina Says.

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

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.

The Source of All Waters

2008-06-09T20:58:00.006-05:00

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.

What Sugar likes

2008-05-30T06:12:00.000-05:00

SUGASM #133 ...is actually quite unexpected

2008-05-28T19:11:00.001-05:00

(Thanks so much for the Editor's Choice award! That is so awesome.)

Sugasm #133

Julia S. courtesy of Badgirls Hotbox.

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 #134? 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

Giving a Damn

"Something happened somewhere along the way, though. I began to care."

Catalina loves "Better Sex Through Yoga"

"I've tried a lot of things, as you can imagine, but there were even a few new things in there for me!"

Reality Check: Dealing With Assholes

"Being able to decline a call is great but bills still need to be paid."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Sugar Bank

Editor's Choice

The Secret Lives of Plants

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Infidelity - An International Pastime

Misc. Letters

Rant: Strip clubs are for customers, not dancers

Top Ten Law Phrases That Sound Dirty, but Aren't

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Mistress Claire Adams Dominates Sarah Jane Ceylon on Hogtied

Sasha Grey HotMovies Interview

Site Review: Into The Attic

The Ultimate Smoking Fetish Movie - Julie Simone's Smoking Interviews 3

Erotic Writing and Experiences

And Closer Still

Doin' It Like A Porn Star

Fucking the co-worker

Ode to Anal - Sebastian, and the anal bond

The Ruf Guide to Coital Stamina

She's Got Teeth

Smoking please.

So... who are you tonight?

Subway Ride

The West End Experience

Sex Work

My Naughty Thoughts

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio

Bedroom Radio #15: JohnBaku of FetLife and the G Twist Vibrator

Bouquet

Duck Race HNT

Flirtatious little bows -HNT

Guy fucks a black mouth in free video

Half-Nekkid @5:30 am

Hot Asian webcam girl made me cum hard

Julia S. - Bellisssima

Missed Show Punishment Spanking - Video Clip

Mistress Seven and Mistress Porsche Lynn shopping

Mistress Zena trampling a lucky sub

Putu (Hegre-Art)

Video: Cock Teasing, Twice-Coming Fun!

Sex Advice

Advice: My Boyfriend Won't Go Down on Me

Greater Intimacy Through Tantric Sex

On Desire

Reader Asks: I Haven't Met Her, But Should She Leave Him?

Smelling Like Sweet Romance?? - The Dangers of Douching

BDSM & Fetish

Anniversary, fatigue and quickies

Another Interesting Morning

Arrival

Beating

Follow My Rules-Part II

Haunt Hunt, But No Goth Cunt

Learning My Limits (part 3)

My IMsL 2008 Trip - Part 6

Parachutes and Panties

Stock and Bonds, ch. 2

Summertime, And The Piggies Are Easy

Underneath

The Secret Lives of Plants

2008-05-21T19:19:00.003-05:00

My lover is a willow tree woman.

The soft coils of her pale hair catch every breeze, twisting and dancing around her shoulders. Her clothes echo the softness of her body; cotton, velvet, textures that call out to the hand. She is grace, she is peace, she is quietude, and I take shameless advantage, sinking all my contrariness beneath her placid surface, where it dissolves, like sugar in tea.

You would think, if you knew her, that such a woman would be soft and yielding in bed - cooing, sighing, coming to her bliss like the last lines of a poem. Imagine her, dark lashes against her pale cheek, lips parted, the glory of her hair spilled out over a pillow; she must moan like this, cry out like this, curl long legs around her lover in a grateful embrace. Coming like a lady, the picture of femininity, a pink-hazed romantic ideal. Pliant, quiet, willow.

It's a lovely vision and completely wrong.

My love is an elemental force when she fucks, a raging storm brewing from the first fierce kiss, forcing my lips apart to accept her, and I am helpless; I bend like a reed to the strength of her passion. I am devoured, fed upon, held down by the bite of her demurely French-manicured fingernails, as her teeth catch my lip, as we tumble into bed with clothes half torn off and the marks of her hunger swelling on my skin. There is no delicacy, there is no mercy. The world becomes her darkened eyes, her hands, her body tense and demanding, the steady, predatory rasp of her breath. Her voice, so low and steady, every word sure as she tells me whose I am.

Disbelieve, if you will. I'm sure some of you dream of taking her into your beds, claiming that softness for your own. How beautiful, some of you think, she would look on her knees. Pliant. Quiet.

Dream away. I know the truth.

And the truth is - when my love lets that softness fall away from her, when she unbinds her Self from the pleasant, sweet, undemanding person the rest of the world sees - I wouldn't have it any other way. When I am burning up, seared by the furnace hidden inside her, when I am given up to her pleasure and commanded to wait for my own - while she rocks, the pressure of her inner thighs locked around my hips, her cunt the most beautiful perfect greedy suction while I try to wait, agonizing, every inch of me shaking like a leaf in her storm -

I am honored. I gladly offer myself to her, to be consumed in that fire night after night. To never be without her marks on my body, hidden under clothes, the way she hides.

Tell me I'm weak, tell me I'm a fool, that I should be more than this.

Just don't expect me to listen. I'm too busy, keeping my willow tree's secret.

Sneak Peek

2008-04-15T23:20:00.002-05:00

In lieu of (and apology for the abscence of) actual finished content, here's a sneak peek at the project that's been consuming my write brain lately. It's sort of a tame beginning, but don't be fooled. My plans for this story have been inducing a *lot* of evil, hand-rubbing, cackling glee. I blame Alan Moore. Enjoy!

On his ninth birthday, Neville Erstwhile decided which type of woman he would someday marry.

It should come as no surprise; young Neville had spent his entire life surrounded by - one might say *eclipsed* by - women; from his mother, the benignely eccentric scholar, to his four sisters, each exceptional in their own way. In the years to come, the Erstwhile girls would scatter to their own households, spread to the four winds: somber little Bliss, scholar and wife to a scholar in Cambridge; delicate, fierce Agathe an actress (though her letters would turn disturbingly political in time) in Paris; golden amazon Juliette who crossed the sea to North America and found herself wed into an oil baron's fortune, of all things; and Constance...who seemed to belong not in this place or that place, but to the entire world at once.

Raised in the shadow of such glories, such independent and frighteningly *modern* women - Neville grew quiet and contemplative, a little gentle knight sprung from an earlier century; and he knew that *his* chosen lady would embody every virtue of the perfect maidens described so ardently in song and story handed down from his grandfathers' day.

She would be soft as mist, pale as cream; her voice would be as quiet and soothing as the sound of his mother singing lullabyes to her first grandchild, songs heard faintly through a closed door. She would listen when he spoke and nod with solemn amazement at the brilliance of his ideas, praise his sketches, bake his favorite sweetmeats and join him in playing with his puppy. (He was, after all, only nine.)

In short, she was Phoebe, the daughter - the sheltered and beloved only child - of his father's business partner, the widower Lord Tullivale.

She attended his birthday celebration that year in a frock of palest lavender, spoke barely three words to him with terribly shy courtesy, gave him a collar of engraved Indian kidskin for his spaniel puppy Bess - obviously obtained by her father, but never mind - and entirely enchanted him before half an hour had passed.

A week later, her father sent her away to a prestigious school for young ladies in Westchester. Neville did not see her again for almost eight years.

Not quite six months past that reunion, they were married, and that is where Neville's troubles began.

Meta: Writespace

2008-03-31T21:43:00.002-05:00

Tonight I set up a...something. I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call it an 'office'. It's a place to write.

Thus far, when I'd sat down to do *real* story work, I'd be at this computer (which is upstairs, and shared with the Significant Other - there aren't any privacy issues, really, but it does mean that I don't always have access to the machine when I'm feeling creative) or sprawled somewhere with a notebook and pen.

This has been working...more or less.

But I'm getting to the point where I have multiple overlapping stories in play, where I have *projects*. And the need to keep putting up shorter stories here on something vaguely resembling a regular schedule (still working on this part). I needed to standardize.

So, tonight I snuck down to the basement that we rarely use (cluttered with Things) and set up a folding table & spare kitchen chair in the back corner. Fortunately our basement does not flood, as the heavens have been pouring down upon us this week. I have candles, and a little fridge for sodas, and I'm going to invest in a cheapass electric teapot so I can have tea. And notebooks, pens, adequate lighting.

Nothing formal, nothing worth any title more grandiose than 'nook'. But I got three or four pages done after all the setting-up-of-furniture, so things are looking good.

If you write, tell me, where do you write? Laptop in an internet cafe'? Desktop in the home office? Quill pen on vellum? I'm curious.

Who cares if it rains, we have SUGASM #123

2008-03-19T22:58:00.000-05:00

Sugasm #123

Mz. Berlin courtesy of Corset & Collar.

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 #124? 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

A Seven Letter Word for Flowers

"I breathed into your neck, brushing my lips against your skin."

Breakfast In Bed

"I rolled her over onto her back and she spread her legs willingly."

Inked

"How quaint to be wooed with a soft brushing of lips over my fingers."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

L.A. Bondage

Editor's Choice

Male spankees and the female gaze

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Blowing Cold

Catalina loves Fetish Friday Pictures

Corset Model Mz. Berlin Is Pin Up Fabulous In This Lovely Pink Corset

Dressed to the nines -HNT

Half-Nekkid with a Strap-On

Hiroshima Circus

The Ideal Man (video)

Jelena Jensen

That Smile

Sex Advice

Pleasure Her With Pearls

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Balcony Fun - Repost

Caught Pt 3

A good time with the neighbor

The Hospital

My wife's first bi-curious romp

Observations and Suggestions Upon Having Fucked Simultaneously Two Other Sex Bloggers

An Officer and a Gentleman...

Playing

Renewal

The Stranger's Words

Technology-Foreplay-Sex

BDSM & Fetish

Bend me. break me. As long as I want you, baby, it's alright.

Electrical Wire Spanking for Masturbating on the Job

Fantasies of a Shoe Store Slut

I Needed Reminding...

A slave's birthday weekend

A Writing Assignment: P1 - Our First Encounter

Sex Work

Last Night's Phone and Camshow Recap

Spying On Sex Workers

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

All These Years

The Cam Lover prepares for Amsterdam sex tour

The great myth of the "Venus corset"

I'm Submissive, Not A Doormat

Lost and Found

Spitzer vs. Clinton: Bill got it for free

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy

Get Paid for Your Orgasms!

Ivy League Confessional: Naked Parties at Yale

Madison Young In A Submissive Latex Femdom Scene On Wired Pussy

My New Thing

Sara Faye And Alexa Jordan Get Abducted During A Rave And Forced To Fuck Each Other

Playing

2008-03-12T01:25:00.004-05:00

I'm clumsy in heels and uncomfortable in makeup, but a debt is a debt.

And, though "dress up nice and come have a drink with me" seems a strange way to repay a $50 loan, my friend can be...adventurous. The ropes, chains and oddly-shaped toys kind of adventures. We've had mornings-after spent covering hickeys, and other marks...on both of us.

So far, I haven't had cause to regret following his lead, or he mine.

And the look in his eye when I promised to make good on this favor gave me the flutters, the ones where your body is trying to decide if it's aroused or alarmed...yeah, those.

So here I am, Friday night, in a little riverfront bar. Smoking in bars and restaurants is illegal in this state but the ghost of tobacco lingers, among all the other aromas of people crowding into a small space to drink and make eyes at strangers. He guides me to the bar. Chill air and chatter from outside filter through the room each time the door opens.

"Be right back," he tells the side of my neck, and is gone before I've fought off the shivers enough to turn and see where he's going.

He's playing and I don't even know what the game is called yet.

Fair bet it's a contact sport, though.

I order a Killian's and am two sips in when he returns...wearing a different jacket. (C'mon, damn you, what's the game...oh, I like to play. I don't mind playing rough, even. But I've never been good at patient.)

"Is this seat taken?" he asks. A stranger's friendly, innocent smile.

MIght as well play; he paid for it. "Actually, I'm waiting for someone," I say; cool, hiding the smile behind my beer. "A date."

"I think I'm him...are you Katie?"

That is annoying, actually, and he's doing it on purpose. I haven't been a Katie since grade school, and it was a hard-won freedom, involving skinned knuckles (mine) and a bloody nose (someone else's).

Whatever. I'll get him later.

"I am! Hi!" Sound happy, I tell myself; take the hand he holds out to shake. His fingers curl around mine, holding on a second longer than propriety demands, warm and intimate; he's standing very close, though that could just be the crowd.

"It's nice to meet you, um..." Waiting for him to feed me the line.

"Mike." That's not even part of his real name. I'm so confused. Roleplaying never has done much for me. "It's nice to meet you, too, Katie. You're very pretty. Can I buy you another drink?"

We linger for half an hour, until he's tiring of the act, the inane first-date chitchat. He loans me his coat and leads me out into the cold, down the 'quaint' cobbled street; chill early-spring wind curls around my ankles and flirts with the hem of my almost-too-short dress. His hand is warm on my arm, reassuring and disturbingly possessive at the same time, and the coat smells like his cologne. I still don't know where - well, OK, I know where this is eventually going, but the map between this dark, empty street and the sweaty, sated ending in a bed somewhere is still a complete mystery.

Just as he wants it to be.

I hate waiting.

He puts music on during the drive but I'm restless, trying to restart the silly getting-to-know-you conversation, anything for a clue where this is going. He forestalls me with a soothing hand on my knee, a distracted "Shhh.." So I wait, and watch the dark city swim past his car, until finally the familiar facade of his building appears. Not much longer now, surely.

I follow him inside, up the steps without a word, and it doesn't occur to me until we're in the empty lobby that this isn't right. This isn't in character.

"Wait..." well-faked concern in my voice, though he can probably hear the underlying sarcasm. I'm really tired of this game now. If he'd told me what he wanted up front - but he didn't, so now I'm annoyed. This is called 'working to book'. "You're sweet, but I don't think we know each other well enough to, um...I think you should take me home."

He looks at me. And it goes right down my spine. The syrupy-sweet, innocent Katie voice dies in my throat. Because nice, friendly first-date guy is gone now. His expression is the same, mild and pleasant and confident; it's the eyes that have changed.

"Why would I do that, Katie?" he asks, suddenly moving into my personal space, looming. I feel pinned to the wall behind me, though his hand gently braceleting my wrist is the only physical contact between us. "I paid for you, didn't I?"

Oh.

Not a first-date game, then, as such.

Understanding arrives while I'm trapped in his shadow, and a perverse thrill comes with it; a dirty, wicked rush of lust and shame making my skin redden. And he sees, and laughs. The bastard.

"Blushing?" he says - mocking - and strokes my cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I'm impressed. Are you that good an actress or are you still new enough at this to feel ashamed?"

His voice is so...soft. Oh, no. I can't do this and look at him - not sure I can do it at all. 'Shy' is not how I would describe myself - ever - but for once I falter, I look away. Blushing hotter at my own weakness. "I...don't think I can do this."

He sighs. Then his hands are on me, pushing me against the lobby wall - pinning my arms to the faux marble. "You don't understand," he tells me, pulling my head back until his mouth is so close to mine, I can feel each word as a soft exhale across my jaw. "I paid for you. You sold yourself to me. And I intend to have my money's worth of you."

We're frozen together, so close to kissing, the moment stretching to eternity; then he takes my wrist again and leads me down the hallway, into the elevator. I feel stunned. Outside myself.

"Give me the coats. Both of them," he says as the elevator doors slide shut behind us.

Up three floors in heavy silence, with chill air from outside still lingering around us, bringing my nipples up tight under the lacy bra and my thin wisp of a dress. Which, of course, is why he took the coats. He stands across the elevator from me and lets his gaze linger there, approving; taking ownership of my body without a word. Even when the doors open again and he gestures me forward, following me into the hallway, I still feel like the floor underneath me is in motion, like the world is gently trembling, everything pushed a little out of frame.

He unlocks the door to his apartment, but even these familiar surroundings don't return my equilibrium. I hesitate in the living room, shifting back and forth on the heels that are starting to make my calves ache, while he disappears into the kitchen; muted clink of glassware, liquid pouring, and after a moment he's back with an open collar and a single glass of red wine.

He walks right past me, sits himself down on the leather sofa and leans back. Utterly relaxed.

"Come here," he says, again without looking.

Part of me wants to kick him for his arrogance, for springing this filthy little charade on me with no warning, for using my obnoxious pet name. But that part is small, and rapidly shrinking, silenced and overwhelmed by the Other. In five steps I'm standing before him, hands clasped unconsciously behind my back, almost straddling his knees.

And he looks up at me. Smiling. Takes a sip from his glass, savoring it.

"Katie," he says, tasting the name. "That's a pretty name for a whore."

So fucking bold. There is an outraged feminist in the back of my head and she has very definite ideas about how I should respond to his name-calling. It's...proprietary. He's owning me with language, picking a name he knows I don't like, making it about pretend money when it's really about...well, real money. He gave me fifty actual dollars, US cash money. And this is how he wants to be paid back. And I could turn and walk out, tell him to fuck himself, tell him that I'm no one's whore and he'll have his money tomorrow when the banks open.

But I don't.

"It isn't my real name," I say, and take a little step forward, until our legs touch, the fabric of his trousers sliding against my stockings. "They told me I should pick something that made me sound young."

"You look young. Are you even twenty yet?" He abandons the wineglass on a side table and, hands freed, touches me; warm skin through the gossamer nylon, sliding up and down from my knees to just below the hem of my skirt. Fingertips almost brushing the stocking tops at the back of my legs. "Why would a pretty girl like you fuck strangers for money?"

I think I'm shivering; the gentle ache from my calf muscles has risen and become something else, a slow burn under his hands, concentrated at a tight knot in the pit of my stomach. The silk of my panties feels damp and slick between my legs. He's debasing me, being deliberately crude, making me so aware of what I'm doing. Making me participate in this game that isn't a game at all, really.

Deep breath, steeling myself to meet his eyes. "I like it," I tell him, shy-voiced, and I swear I see his eyes grow darker. Involuntary biological signals of lust. "Dating bores me. I needed money and I wanted something that wasn't so...nice."

"Mmmm. A willing whore, I like that." He sits back, hands leaving me without even touching my skin. Looking down at him it's obvious how much he's enjoying this. "Let's get started. I've spent enough time playing getting to know you."

Looking up at me. Expectant. I have to clear my throat before the next line will come out.

"How do you want me?"

And he chuckles, like I'm funny. Like I'm being cute and naive.

"Take your fucking clothes off," he says, slow and clear, so I get every syllable distinctly. "You just told me what you are. Not just a pussy for sale but a shameless slut who gets off on it. So stop wasting my time and fuck me."

It's a complex reaction. There's anger. There's humiliation, burning in my face, making me have to fight my own impuse to run away. Both emotions fuelling the fever of arousal that blankets me, racing like the burn of alcohol through my bloodstream, dizzying. Every filthy, honeyed word out of his mouth is like a soft stroke against my clit, pushing me further.

There's no stopping now.

I turn away from him. The dress - pretty little red thing - has a long row of buttons down the back. I shake my hair forward, out of the way, and let him watch me undo each one. Cool air rushing in to caress my hot skin. Peeling the fabric down over my arms, refusing to look at him as it slides down to puddle at my feet, around the shoes I wore for him.

He wants shameless? I bend over to get the dress, legs apart, giving him a good long look at the black lace and silk I *also* wore for him. At the unmistakeable darkening of the fabric where he's made me wet enough to soak it through.

Then, turning again, dropping the dress in a heap behind me as I sink to my knees on the carpet in front of him.

He's still slouched back, miming relaxation, but I can see tension in his forearms and the way he doesn't blink while staring at me. I was told to get started. The supple leather of his belt slides easily against itself, clinking when it falls open, and I don't let my gaze leave his while I unbutton, unzip, freeing the solid length of his cock. He's so ready.

I run a fingertip along him, from base to glistening wet tip, and he shudders. The hypnotic eyes drift closed, and for a moment, I feel victorious.

Then his hand twists into my hair, pulling me towards him. "That was very pretty, Katie girl," he says - growls at me. "Now open your slut mouth and give me what I paid for."

He leaves me no time for finesse or teasing - just pulls until I give in and go forward, let his cock sink into my mouth. So thick, and hot, radiating against my lips and tongue. He doesn't let go. Soft moaning deep in his throat, an almost gentle, contented sound, contrasting vividly with the way he's pushing me onto him, only letting me pull back when he goes too deep and I start to gag. Then I'm controlling the pace, at least a little bit. Sucking hard - he seems to not want any gentleness - trying to find every sensitive spot with my tongue, my hands against his thighs to push back a little when he gets forceful again. And he does. It's more a battle for control than a blowjob. Saliva drips down my chin and I can taste him, salty-bitter but not unpleasant. His body shuddering under me, tense. Every few seconds I choke as he pushes me down, further than I would have taken him on my own, and he's saying such filthy things to me while he does it. Telling me that I can do better. That I need to learn to be a good little cocksucker. It's uncomfortable and humiliating and I'm absolutely burning up inside; if I didn't have to instinctively fight every time he pushes into my throat I'd have two fingers buried in my pussy right now.

When he finally lets me back off - swollen head of his cock sliding out of my mouth with an obscene slurp - my eyes are watering down onto my cheeks and he's breathing hard, unsteady. The hand that is still tangled in my hair tilts my head up so he can see my face, and he smiles at me. "Messy," he says. "Looks good on you."

Then he's sliding off the couch, onto the floor with me. Pushing me back and down until I'm sprawled across his rug, still trying to catch my breath, while he looms over me.

I watch while his shirt comes off - tossed aside like my dress - but he doesn't bother with the rest of his clothes. The panties I wore for him have little ties at the sides and he rips them away from me. Takes a moment to admire the glistening, slick, swollen pussy thus revealed.

"You are hungry for it, aren't you," he tells me, and chuckles again. I hate that laugh. But his fingers are sliding along my slit now, pulling me open, little teasing brushes over my clit to make me squirm. "You didn't lie to me. That's good. Are you gonna come like a good slut when I fuck you?"

"Yes..." Now I can't look at him; pleasure flares every time he touches me, taking over, and in my head I'm so ashamed at how easy it is for him to take control. Shocked at my own weakness. Waiting desperately for more. "I'll come... I can't help it."

"I know you can't..." He's right over me now, pulling my legs up and apart till my knees are hooked over his arms, the pretty shoes dangling at his sides. "Look at me, Katie." Hot pressure of his cock against me, back and forth in tiny little grinding strokes over my clit. "Look up at me."

I do. And he smiles.

"That's a good whore," he tells me, and pushes in hard. Forcing me open around his thickness, the sudden strange internal pressure when he reaches the deepest part of me, searing heat and pleasure that can't be separated from pain any longer. My toes curl in the shoes, my back arches against the soft carpet beneath me; he's relentless, driving in, no gentleness, no mercy. Using me.

And I come, just like I'd told him, screaming with my head thrown back, and he laughs.

Blood pounds in my head, in time with the waves of my climax, and it's a few moments before I realize that he's pulled out of me. I'm dazed, not sure if he's finished, not sure if I care about anything beyond the pleasure still throbbing gently inside me, fading slow.

"That was pretty, Katie," he whispers into my ear. His arms sliding underneath me, lifting me just a little. "But we're not done."

Then I'm rolled unceremoniously onto my belly. He ignores my weak protest and continues arranging me to his pleasure, lifting my hips, tucking my knees underneath until I'm totally exposed for him, my ass in the air, head pillowed on my arms on the ground. He whistles low with approval, and I feel him leaning over me from behind, stroking the length of my back.

"I bet you'll like this too," he tells me, mocking, and I feel his fingers between my legs. Stretching my pussy open again, making me hiss a little where he left me sore - then out, and up, gently probing at my ass, such a strange feeling. I wriggle in wordless protest, but it doesn't stop him.

"Relax, you know what it is," he says, and something colder touches me - slick liquid dripping onto my hot flesh, coating his fingers, I have no idea where he had the lube hidden, but at least there isn't any pain when his fingertips press me open and slide inside, where I am so tight and unused to this sort of invasion.

"You're going to fuck my ass..." I murmur - not really a question, I'm still too out of it from the orgasm. Struggling to focus. The alien sensation of his thick fingers pushing into me, deeper and deeper, slowly stretching me, doesn't make conversation any easier. "Ought to charge you more."

The fingers go away, and he lands a stinging slap across my bottom. It's just another sensation, forcing my arousal higher; everything feels good right now, the filthy little game, the way he's talking to me, even the little bits of pain he inflicts feel good.

The head of his cock pushes against me, fat and solid, thicker than his fingers were. I hide my face in the carpet and whimper as I'm penetrated. It burns...so different from before. I press back against him, helping, trying to relax.

I want this.

"My Katie..." he says from behind me, rough approval in his voice. "On your knees getting fucked in the ass...worth every fucking penny." Helpless noises coming out of me while we rock together, I'm past the point of words; just mewling, crying out when he goes faster, my fingernails digging into the carpet under us. Total surrender. I want this never to end.

But he's tensing, his rhythm changing with each stroke into me, and I realize there's one more move to the game, one more thing he can do to me. His hand knots in my hair again and tugs hard, pulling me back against him, twice, three times, and I feel a subtle shuddering inside as he growls deep in his throat. Coming in my ass, filling me, using me like a receptacle. An object. What he paid for.

I manage to worm one hand down under my belly and find my clit, rubbing frantically as he shudders and moans, and bring myself to a second gasping climax just as he pulls his cock out of my ass. He slumps backward; I stay on my knees for a moment that stretches out for ever, crying, coming, finally collapsing onto my belly on the rug.

"Nice," he tells me, and pats my ass. I hear him climbing to his feet, taking off the pants that he never got around to removing before. "I'll be in the shower."

There's a rustle, something light bounces off my shoulder and lands on the carpet beside me, but he's already out of the room before I manage to roll over and blink away the bleariness enough to understand.

It's money. Two more $50 bills, crisp and new, pristine.

I lay still on the carpet, holding the money. Shivering. Listening to the shower start in the other room.

Unabashed fangirling: Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab.

2008-03-09T12:21:00.002-05:00

Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab is a "purveyor of fine esoteric goods, perfumes & potions". They've been creating and selling their own perfume oil blends (and assorted other goods) since 2002.

It's an addiction. There are Internet communities devoted to reviewing and swapping BPAL perfumes. A bottle of a discontinued Limited Edition scent (sold for about $20US on their website while they're available) might sell for many times that on Ebay.

Alas, I only own five or six bottles. 'Elegba' is formulated after the traditional offerings to the Afro-caribbean god of crossroads and doorways: coconut, tobacco, sugared rum. It smells like Samoas - the caramel & coconut Girl Scout cookies. 'Bordello' is a sweetly decadent blend of plum, blackcurrent, and amaretto. 'Depraved' - a favorite - has the black pepper/potting soil scent of dark patchouli entwined with lush sweet apricot.

Some of their scents are inspired by old gods; mythical creatures; by fictional characters, creations of authors such as Neil Gaiman, Lewis Carroll, H. P. Lovecraft. Some honor the spirit of places, real or imagined: Glasgow, Paris, Gomorrah, Eden.

And every full moon - well, almost every full moon - they release a Limited Edition scent: a Lunacy.

Their February Lunacy was Sugar Moon.

"SUGAR MOON
No way to see him
on this moonless night ---
I lie awake longing, burning,
breasts racing fire,
heart in flames.

Sugar cane, blue musk, mahogany, black orchid, black currant, violet, blackberry leaf, teak, strawberry, and dusky rose."

...now, I am not affiliated in any way with BPAL. I do not work for them, I don't know personally anyone who works there, they aren't giving me any free stuff for this review. I very much doubt that the release of the aforementioned, eponymous perfume blend has anything at all to do with my little corner of the Internet.

It's just kismet.

(There's a Sugar Moon t-shirt, too.)

My bottle of Sugar Moon arrived today (along with the two freebie testers they always throw in with an order). I'm...not sure I can describe the scent...sweet but not cloying, dark and warm underneath. It fits. The t-shirt has not arrived yet, but I will attempt to get a picture when it does.

So, please forgive the momentary deviation from fiction. Given that the Hand of Fate had stepped in and acknowledged my little venture here, I figured I should do something to honor it. :D

Research Pt. 3

2008-03-05T19:58:00.002-06:00

Thank you all for your patience. The plague hit hard this year.

Anyway, yes, it's really finished now, and yes, there's fucking in this one, I promise :D

Link to Research pt. 1 and Research pt. 2 if you're new to the site.

Enjoy!

Research, part 3

I remember what it's like to be handcuffed. The metal is cold, and it's hard to keep your balance. Stuffed into the back of a squad car with Devon, both of us 17 and drunk and still half-snickering at our own percieved cleverness, we could barely sit upright and when the driver took a corner too fast, we bumped heads so hard I saw stars.

When we sobered up, it was embarrassing. We had to work for months to pay back what it cost to clean the graffiti off the gym floor, and no, I'm not going to tell you what it said. It took two weeks of puppydog eyes and a particularly thoughtful, heartfelt apology before I would speak to Devon again. And - in one of the most mortifying conversations of my life - I had to swear up and down to my mother that I wasn't sleeping with him.

"It isn't like that," I told her. "Devon's not, like...I don't think I could. He's not a boy, he's my friend."

I remember the pitying look she gave me. At the time I assumed she thought I was lying. Maybe not, though. Maybe she just understood the lesson that it's taken me this long to learn.

Feelings can change. They can change fast.

The lack of balance is eerily familiar, taking me back to that summer night in the police car; but Devon's the only one here, his hands are gentle and steadying on my upper arms. My wrists are secured behind me, but with a sash from my curtains - velvet soft cord - instead of cold, alien steel. He's still in jeans. I'm naked, and I feel naked, bare and tender, confused. Embarrassment and heady lust are fighting in my head, feeding off each other, and I can't seem to catch my breath.

Closing my eyes might have helped - he's leading me, anyway, it wouldn't hurt - but he chuckles and tells me to open them again. When I do, we're at the hall mirror; I only catch a glimpse, shadowed flesh-colored reflections, before turning away, burying my face against his arm. I can't look at us like this, can't deal with the visual evidence of my perversion. This can't really be happening.

"Look," he says. Goading. "C'mon, you're pretty, I want you to see. Don't make me tell you again."

Part of me wants to look; part wants to run away and put my clothes back on and never see him again.

Part - the wicked little whispering part, which seems to have taken over while I was distracted - says wait and see what he does.

"God you're a brat," he sighs into my hair, and his right hand smacks hard across my ass. It burns, stinging heat that mellows as it spreads, making my whole body glow with warmth. His other arm goes around my waist, holding me still for five or six more blows while I writhe and squeak, humiliated beyond words, wishing he would stop. Feeling a slick, betraying heat between my thighs.

Satisfied with my 'lesson', he twines his free hand into my hair, pulls my head back. "Fucking look at the mirror," he tells me, and this time I obey.

God, I'm so naked...held before him like a sacrifice, my breasts pushed outward, rising and falling gently with each uneven breath. Devon behind me, his left hand flat against my stomach, claiming my flesh. He looks taller, like this, looming behind me, smiling a little at my reaction.

"See?" he whispers, "So pretty...let me show you."

His hand slides over my skin, reaching between my legs, no warning, just his fingertips sinking in where I'm embarrassingly wet and ready for him. I'm transfixed, staring at our reflection, watching him spread me open; the palm of his hand is warm against my pubic bone, his long fingers on either side of my clit, touching but not touching. Holding me open so we both can see the slick shimmer of moisture, the delicate pink of my hidden flesh, the proof of how much I'm enjoying this.

"There you are. Such a sexy pussy." He curls his fingers a little, massaging, but staying carefully away from the one place I want them the most. It's torment, incredible, and I feel myself moving involuntarily - hips pressing forward, pushing against his hand, searching for more touch, more sensation. I hate him. He's a bastard tease. I want him dead, I want him inside me, I don't know what I want anymore, and I realize that I'm saying these things out loud, cursing and pleading while he holds me still and laughs at my predicament. "I knew you'd be like this, I'd get under all that tough outside and you'd be soft for me..."

Squeezing me, his fingers pressing so gently along the sides of my clit - a little friction if I rock my hips just the right way, not enough to satisfy, but something. Our eyes meet in the mirror and he smiles at me, all dark and sweet and wicked, and I break. Some structure of iron inside my psyche bursting like a soap bubble. And he was right; it's freefall.

"Please fuck me," I ask. Beg. "Fuck me. Use me. Anything you want, just...*show* me..."

The soft growl of his approval vibrates against my back, where I'm held tight against him. "That's a good girl," he whispers.

He pulls his hand from between my legs - slowly, letting his fingers drag against me, one slick caress over all the places he wouldn't touch before - and then I'm led down the hallway, on unsteady legs, past the all-seeing mirror and into my bedroom. All the clothes from last night still scattered over my rug. "God, you're a slob," he tells me and shakes his head in mock dismay. "You do need someone in charge. Get on the bed."

No help this time - he crosses his arms over his chest and smirks at me as I climb awkwardly into my own messy bed, trying not to fall on my face. The only consolation is the blatant swell of his cock through the jeans - seeing it now, and feeling it pressed against my ass just a few seconds ago. At least I'm not the only one going crazy for this. And I'm not the only one who can be teased.

I turn my back to the headboard and kneel, letting my knees slide apart slowly on the cotton sheets until the stretch in my inner thighs aches a little. Leaning back against the smooth wood behind me, pushing my shoulders back further to let my breasts jut out, tempting. Fingertips almost brushing the sheet beneath me. I feel wicked and a little silly, posing for him like this, but the look in his eyes...yeah, worth it.

"What should I do now?" I ask, soft-voiced. Holding his eyes with mine. "Sir."

"Hmm...'sir'." He says, thoughtfully, and climbs onto the bed in front of me. Letting his hands rest at my waist, lightly stroking my back with his fingertips. "I don't think 'sir' fits. I'm not a 'sir'. And I like you better when you're cursing at me..."

His grip tightens, pulling me away from the headboard and against his body; his mouth only an inch, half an inch from mine. "Or begging me." A pulse is pounding in my head, I can't tell if it's his or mine. His hands slide down along my skin, cupping my ass, pulling me hard into him until the seam of denim over his erection is forced against my pussy; the soft rocking of our hips grinds me back and forth against it while his mouth brushes over mine, tiny little kisses that he won't let me deepen, evading my mouth. "You gonna beg me? C'mon...ask for it again..."

"You son of a bitch, please, I can't stand it - I need to cum - stop fucking teasing me!"

I would have gone on, letting the words pour out of me until my voice failed, but his kiss cuts me off. I'm overwhelmed by his taste, the soft heat of his mouth open to mine, tongue and teeth, devouring. I devour him in turn; bound, but not helpless. We may have been there for hours, I'm not sure. The dynamic of the kiss shifted back and forth, fleeing and pursuing, both of us making little excited noises and groans that mingled together until I couldn't tell who was doing what. His hands on my ass, my back, curled into my hair. Writhing and rocking together until I thought we would melt into each other, dissappear.

Gradually, though, we left off, desperate for oxygen; Devon's sweat-damp forehead rested on my shoulder while he caught his breath. "God, you're going to kill me," he moaned.

"Only if you don't give it up in about, oh...I'll give you ten more seconds," I tell him. Just as breathless.

He grins, and lets me go - falls backward away from me, thumping down onto the mattress with a little 'oof'. Leaving me bewildered on my knees, no longer capable of the kind of rational thought required to understand. OK, he's reaching down, fingers busy at his fly, lifting his hips to squirm halfway out of the jeans and oh, my god. He is beautiful, and glistening, and just as ready for this as I am. I feel a clench in the pit of my stomach - soon he'll be right there - and have to close my eyes again. There's nothing left of me but want.

"Here," he says, and when I look again he's propped himself up on one elbow, the other hand curled lightly around his cock. Offering it to me. "You want it? Come take it. I wanna see you do it yourself."

I hate you floats through my mind, a distant and false echo of the Me who still has pride, and self-control. But she's been gone for a while now. Taking no notice of my own awkwardness, crawling towards him on my knees like this; the lust seems to know all those human balancing tricks that I had to go through infancy and childhood to learn.

Devon pulls his hand out of my way and leans back on both elbows. Watching intently. "Good girl, you can do it. Take my cock." My knees just outside his hips, soft skin against my inner thighs...leaning forward so far my breasts almost brush his stomach, my hair pooling on his chest, feeling without seeing, so filled with wordless frustration that I'm almost ready to cry...

Then: the slick, thick warmth of his cock, the very head of it, brushing my labia. His breath hisses in, it flexes against me, I bite my lower lip, concentrating, balancing, I want it, I fucking need it inside me right now and he's right there and yes all I have to do is push and it goes right in, right into me, oh god...

He exhales, a low moaning sound deep in his throat; I think I made a noise, but I don't know what it was.

I sit back at the same time he pushes up into me and that last half-inch slides in, I can feel him pressing against things deep inside, he's saying "c'mon fuck me, fuck me pretty girl, you feel so good" and I start to move myself, rocking in his lap. The almost-suction as I rise up, the incredible pressure and heat filling me when I slide - no, push myself back down, getting faster, my bound hands clenched together behind me until my knuckles ache. Everything inside me is tightening, thrumming, reaching critical mass, our bodies are coming together with a frantic wet rythm that fills the room, I can hear that and the blood pounding everywhere in me and Devon's voice, urging me on, my friend loving me, showing me what falling is like, it's like coming... like the waves that take me over, bringing stuttering little cries out of my throat. Closing my eyes, making my hips jerk arhythmically under his hands. Coming so hard, and he takes hold of me and I get three or four more deep thrusts from beneath, each one setting off another little explosion in my belly, before he growls and lets his head fall back onto the sheets and I know he's coming, too.

And then we collapse together, because there's nothing left of us.

***

I open my eyes to daylight. Fucking amazing. It's only afternoon.

We didn't really sleep, at least I don't think we did. Devon blinks and smiles as I move against him, contented noises, and nuzzles his chin against my head. "We need another shower," he says in a sleepy-rough voice.

"Mm. Untie me, then, before my arms fall off." I half-push, half-roll off him onto my side, and nudge his hip with one knee. "You can help me change the sheets when we're done, too."

He struggles the rest of the way out of his jeans while I squirm over to the edge of the bed, carefully regaining my feet, and turn to present my bound wrists to him. "Hurry up, I can't wash without my hands."

"That's ok!" he says brightly, and stands up. And promptly hoists me over his shoulder. "I can wash you."

My shouts and kicks are ignored. Because he's a bastard.

I knew I would be sorry.

Plague!

2008-02-18T20:54:00.001-06:00

I *would* be writing, but the dread influenza has fallen hard upon my household. The bodily fluids I'm concerned with at the moment are not the ones you want to hear about, I promise you.

Will be back to posting as soon as I feel human again.

--Sugar

SUGASM #116 is made entirely of win

2008-01-28T22:28:00.001-06:00

Top three again?! \o/ Thanks, everybody. I'M NOT WORTHY!

Sugasm #116

Justine Jolie courtesy of TGP.

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 #117? 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

In Case Of Fire

"His hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me close - easily, no effort at all, letting me feel the power of his arms and the warm puff of his breath against my ear."

It was a long night...

"I gasped as he slowly pushed in one finger, slippery with oil, and began to wiggle it and spread me open."

Sex Worker Confessions: Gracie Passette

"But underneath it all, sex workers are all about bridging, in body & soul, word & deed, the irreconcilable differences between realities and desires."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The Persian Kitty Alternative

Editor's Choice

Baker’s Birthday

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Guy fucks an English babe’s bum in free gangbang clip

Half-Nekkid on Wacky Hair Day

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Our movie debut

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Sex Toy or Dog Toy...Or Both?

Thistle

WebMistress Feature Gallery: The Shaving Celebration

Sex Work

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Sex & Politics

Choice Only Begins With Abortion

A Taste of History and Ethics

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Catalina loves Old Friends

Intensity

Learning my place

Morning Wake Up

Punishment

The Secret Room

Sex Party of Five

Sight

Submission

The TAO of Slavery

Tinkle Tinkle

Viper

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Bisexuals Are No Longer Confused

Gwen Diamond Cuckolds Her Husband And Forces Him To Eat Cum

Interview with Rachel Shukert on Jewish girls and blowjobs

The ultimate titty finder

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Cum-shots, spanking, and the role of blogging in feminist porn

Fear and Loathing of Phone Sex

Just Ask For It

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Erotic Writing and Experiences

Choices.

A Clandestine Liaison

Cock

The fluent cunnilinguist

For You….

Guesterotica

Haute Couture - Part 1

Mood

Recovery - Part III

Seven minutes

Table Seventeen

Teaching a blowjob lesson

That Girl

Three

2008-01-27T00:24:00.000-06:00

There's another woman in the mirror.

Her pretty brown hair may have been carefully styled earlier in the evening, but now it's tousled, wild, damp with sweat. Shadow, liner and mascara have smudged together, ringing her eyes in smoky black, making them huge.

She needs no lipstick; her mouth is swollen, red from deep and feral kisses.

We tilt our heads in unison.

At first, in the ambient light, her graceful neck appears to bear a darker line of shadow. But as she moves, the stain resolves into a chain of love-bites, purplish red against her pale skin. I see her mouth curve at the sight, pleased by the memory.

A soft robe, plum-colored silk, graces her shoulders; as she allows it to fall away, sliding liquid smooth over her skin, more marks are revealed. The dark circles stand out like brands, drawing the eye, raising heated thoughts of the act that created them. They follow the curve of her collarbone, her shoulders. Another on the upper slope of her breast, near her heart. She runs her fingertips over this one, gently tracing its outline; probing the tender patch with a widening, sensual smile, a smile with secrets behind it.

Rising gracefully to her feet, the stranger lets her robe fall to the floor; all her voluptuous beauty exposed to me by the dim, golden light. Sumptuous breasts, ripe and full, sized to spill out into a man's hands. Nipples as red, as swollen as her mouth, and for the same reason - kissing, nipping, suckling, torment leaving the flesh hypersensitive. Lower, the gentle curve of belly and hip, of upper thigh. The soft nest of fur between her legs still glistens with moisture seeping out from her secret inner folds. And all that tender flesh, breasts and stomach, criss-crossed with thin pink lines; welts left by a slender object brought down against her skin with force.

Her long, graceful hands trail down her torso, stroking over these conspicuous marks, evidence of dark passions satisfied; slowly she touches each one, wincing a little at the darkest. At the end of this exploration, the stranger - wanton, displaying herself for me this way - presses two fingers between her labia. The dark-rimmed eyes sink closed with pleasure while she gently caresses herself, then brings those fingers, glistening with her own wetness, up to her mouth. Licking, then suckling them clean. Opening her eyes to stare into mine as she tastes herself. With her hand raised I can see the redness braceleting her wrist; the place where rope or fabric chafed a little, leaving her marked there, as well.

She turns, shadow and soft light playing over her body like a lover's hand...like her own touch had. Carefully she gathers up her long hair at the nape of her neck, holding it with one hand, exposing the soft-sculpted length of her back, the tender, lovely swell of her ass.

And a new gallery of marks - darker, thicker, blooming bruises like irises across her hips and ass, red lines swelling across her shoulderblades. Twisting slightly to look over her shoulder, she takes in this colorful display with obvious pleasure.

Low on one buttock is a red, raised handprint.

For another moment, a few breath's worth of time, she is still; looking at herself, looking at me, displaying the proof of her debauchery and unashamedly revelling in it. Smiling over her shoulder at me. A thoroughly sexual creature, my stranger, glowing in the golden half-light.

A bruised and bright-eyed Venus.

Eventually, though, she allows her silken mane to cascade down, hiding her secret again. Her gaze leaves mine - I am no longer of note, the connection is gone. As she turns, so do I. There is an even more delightful experience awaiting me.

I glimpsed it from the corner of my eye as we moved; her shifting away from the mirror revealed the form. A figure, gloriously male, lying sprawled across the bed behind her. Nude, painted antique gold by the soft light, and beautiful; his chest rising and falling in a slow sleep rythm, his cock a promising shadow between half-spread thighs.

He looks even better first-hand.

Smiling in anticipation, I step over my fallen robe and go to wake my lover.

How I missed thee SUGASM #115

2008-01-22T22:52:00.000-06:00

Sugasm #115

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 #116? 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

Debauched nothings

"You promised me you'd give me your cock."

Sex Trophies

"Inside the drawer are two pair of panties."

Who gets to talk about sex?

"I was thinking the other day about who gets to talk about sex and sexuality."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Cashback

Editor's Choice

The houseboy's rebellion

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

Erotic Writing and Experiences

About Chantal, now...

CyberGirl goes beyond amazing

Lady Chatterley's Ruf

My New York Indiscretion

Off on the right foot

Table Top

Tonia (Part 2)

The Train

Valentine.

Walking Home In Her Panties

Sex Humor

A joke

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Because.

Bragging rights and the name game

Circumcise Me

An Eco-Sexy New Year

I mean this in a caring way

A Time For Sex Ed Innocence

An unexpected sexy anniversary

The Way I Like It

Sex Work

Keeping It In The Family II

What Do You Look Like, Rose?

NSFW Pics & Videos

Aradia Ardor

The Cam Lover is lonely and needs rough sex with a new doll

Crystal Klein super hottie

Kyla Cole

Missy Nicole - I'm Bored

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Adult Entertainment Expo 2008

Dana DeArmond Submits To The Training Of O (Bondage, Forced Orgasms)

Fetish Fair Fleamarket recap

Harmony HotMovies Interview

Jamye Waxman Wants You to Find Your O Face

BDSM & Fetish

Effervescent

Flavours of Pain

Half-Nekkid Toe Licker

The houseboy's rebellion

LA Story: the night I learned to f-u-c-k

Padme amidala: My history of blowjobs

Recovery

Sexy porn turns into a sexy mental fantasy

Spanked Her Off to Work. - The Husband

Trick or Treat

(The Worst?) Profile of the week

In Case Of Fire

2008-01-22T22:27:00.000-06:00

This one is dark. Not super dark, but...kind of dark. Be thou forewarned.

The song for this one is "Rain Fall Down" by the Stones, if you wanna you can hear it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBytpryXVk0

Enjoy.

In Case Of Fire

The hesitation, that's how I knew.

June, and miserably hot. I'd just moved from halfway across the country, leaving the familiar behind, for a job I wasn't even sure I'd like. I figured we all need a Grand Adventure, one time in our lives to do something stupid and brave. I brought my car and my laptop and a few boxes of stuff, the clothes on my back, and the remainder of my last tax return. That was it. The apartment came with a futon, a closet-sized kitchen, apparently busted air conditioning (the super gave me a clicky desk fan, gratis) and an incredible view of the river cutting its slow, dirty-silver path through downtown. Lots of trees here.

And that was my life, in total, on the hot Saturday in June when I looked up and found a stranger in the room with me.

Later I'd realise he's almost my height, but from my knees - I'd been cleaning the scary kitchen linoleum - he looked massive. Backlit from the open balcony doors, built square, a dark male shape above me like the Sword of Damocles.

My scrub-brush fell from startled fingers, my mouth dried up suddenly and completely; I felt hollow inside with surprise and fear. Instantly aware of my vulnerability, kneeling there on a soapy floor in a t-shirt and boxers, barefoot. Slapped with a dizzying sense memory of being so much smaller than I am now.

"Where's John?" he said, and I could hear the pause in his voice, something near confusion. I knew the answer to this, and later would kick myself for not outright lying, but the truth squeaked out of me before I could catch it.

"Oh, John Wilson, he used to live here, um. The sup said he moved home. His father had a heart attack. I just moved in...sorry..."

Stupid, see? Might as well have been "Why yes, menacing stranger, I am here alone. Do with me as you will!"

"Shit," he sighed. "He owed me $50."

And then, the hesitation. Me on my knees, barely dressed, staring up at him; holding myself ever so still, like a hunted rabbit, waiting for the inevitable pounce. Him still standing - looming - a thundercloud of a man, looking down at me on the floor. I swear I could see his shadowed eyes narrow, darken, as the thought went through him, saw the broad ringless hands twitch. In that second we neared clairvoyance, shared the same thought; of bodies entwined on the slick-wet floor, his knees pushing my thighs apart at a cruel angle; of my soft helplessness struggling in his grip. Of the sounds I would make while he held me down and fucked me.

A single, breathless moment, where everything in the world seemed to stop; and then he stepped back, crouched down a bit to be at eye level. A nice smile, boyish, an aw-shucks-ma'am smile, and an open palm held out to me in apology. "I must've scared the hell out of you - sorry about that," he said. "I'm Bill Dwyer, downstairs. John and I would play cards from time to time. I promise I won't bust in on you like this again."

"Sure," spilled out of me, being sociable on autopilot. Shaking the hand that dwarfs mine; his palm was warm, dry. "Claire. Bowden. Sorry I look like crap, I really did just move in and, well...I won't insult John's housekeeping to a friend of his..."

"Never fear, I won't tell." He stood back up, nodded politely. "I'll be on my way. If you ever need anything, just knock, I'm right under you."

"Thanks! Good to meet you. I will."

He turned, walked off. Just a man. Not too tall, solid but with some grace, and out of the shadows his eyes were friendly brown. A guy.

Still, once I heard his footsteps vanish downstairs, I locked the door. And the patio.

-----------------------

Almost a year passed. I never needed the precaution.

Bill was the perfect gentleman. He worked late - something in a factory, something requiring quite a bit of technical expertise, I gathered. He wasn't stupid. I'd wake up early to get ready for work and sometimes, slipping out to the fire escape for a quick cigarette before the commute, I'd find him already out one floor down with a smoke of his own. We'd talk for a while. Politics, music. He has a niece upstate, twelve already, says she makes him feel old...he can't be more than 30. I told him about my uncles and the auto shop they ran, how they argued and schemed and finally started destroying the business, running it into the ground out of spite at each other, until finally they got drunk together one night and went down to the shop. Burned the whole thing down as some kind of fucked-up alcoholic peace offering. Bill laughed so hard, I thought I'd killed him.

"Didn't have a coronary down there, did you?" I asked, leaning over the railing.

He was quiet for a second - until I got actually worried - then there he was, leaning out below me, reaching up to touch the very trailing tip of my hair. "Come down and check," he said, and gave me that shucks-ma'am grin again.

It was too dark for him to see me blush. Probably. I laughed it off, and we said goodnight, wandered back into our homes.

I'm not sure we were friends, exactly; we got to know each other pretty well, but there was always that question in the back of my mind, where I didn't like to go. The faint magnetic pull of that moment on the floor, the memory of something that never actually happened; his body pressing down on me like a dark cloud, the sound of rough breathing in my hear and of my own whimpering.

I didn't want to think about it...sometimes I couldn't help thinking about it.

There were six or seven dates that year, brothers or friends of the girls I'd met at work, but none quite worked out. Only one or two made it as far as my bedroom. Quick, fun, safe encounters, screwing as best we could on my lumpy futon; guys who called me 'baby' like they'd forgotten my name, who weren't invited to stay till morning. Nothing that really satisfied. My job was good, the money was good, but nothing really...stuck.

I was thinking about moving back home, really.

------------------------

April, raining, maybe three in the morning; I couldn't sleep, so the week's last Corona and I were out communing with nature. I watched Bill's car pull up to the curb from my fire-escape perch, hidden in the shadow of the building. He was alone, walking like he was tired.

A few minutes later his balcony door slid open beneath me; I saw the dark shape of his head, the flare of a lighter.

"It's wet," I warned him. "You'll catch your death."

Between the metal slats I could just barely see his head tilt as he looked up at me.

"Probably," he told me, "but you're out here."

I laughed. "Don't follow my example. You'll end up lonely, wet and sneezing."

No response to that. I saw his cigarette fly out over the parking lot, thrown hard; then the door sliding shut beneath me, rough, shaking the fire escape.

"Shit, Bill, I didn't mean to piss you off!" I called over the railing, and got no answer.

After a while I went back inside. Unsettled, pacing the apartment, rubbing my hair with a towel. I didn't mean to make him angry. Stupid damn thing to say when he'd just got home from work, probably exhausted, alone, I'd never seen him bring back a woman, never...

Yes. I was that dense. It took me exactly that long. And even when I figured it out, when I stood there openmouthed in the dark of my apartment like Pentecost had come and put a light through my whole body, I couldn't go to him, not at first. Oh, it was too much. Too scary and hot and dark. I faltered there in front of the sliding door for ten, fifteen minutes, not even pacing, just rocking back and forth, chewing a fingertip, trying to breathe. To nerve myself up.

And finally, couldn't stand it anymore, being trapped there on the threshold of so much; I climbed down the stairs to his balcony and rapped on the glass until he came and opened the door for me. A tired Bill, still in his work jeans, barefoot, beer in hand; looking at me with narrow eyes, dark eyes like that very first time. The rain was beading in my hair, soaking my shirt, running down my bare calves and the sides of my throat, touching me everywhere.

"When you found me in the kitchen..." I started to ask, and faltered. Somehow he was doing it again, looming over me in the shadow of the doorway, making me feel fragile and afraid. And so unspeakably excited.

"You were beautiful," he says, low-voiced. "Perfect, delicate, all flushed from the heat. On your knees."

I was shivering, and not from the cold, and he knew it. "What were you thinking about...doing?"

And he smiled. Not the friendly reassuring grin I knew but a dark, knowing smile. His hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me close - easily, no effort at all, letting me feel the power of his arms and the warm puff of his breath against my ear. "I knew you were afraid...that I would rape you."

The word shook me, brought a gasp from me...pleasing him. Adding a rough edge to his voice. "And I could never, ever do such a horrible, violent thing to a woman."

His teeth grazed my earlobe, nipping, making me whine, and I pressed my wet body into his chest, pleading without words. His other arm wrapped around me, palm pressed into the small of my back; no escaping now, wherever this was going, I was going with it.

"But I *wanted to*," he growled into my ear, and bending his head down, sank teeth into the soft spot where my throat met my shoulder.

"Oh god BILL - ahh..."

Everything fell apart then, the tiny little fire escape world dissolving into darkness and heat, his hands rough on my body, the searing pain/pleasure of the bite radiating down my torso in a straight line to the depths of my belly, lighting me on fire. I was writhing in his arms as he trailed biting kisses up my neck, too fierce to not be leaving marks, a purple trail that would linger for days; reminding me of what this was...

"You want it." he said to me, and shook me a little until I opened my eyes. "You want this, just like this, rough."

"I - yes. Please," I told him, confessed to him, gave up my truth to his darkness and let it sweep me up. "I want it, I've wanted it the whole time, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it -"

My wrists were in his hands. He pulled me through the dark doorway, leaving it open to the rain behind us. Pushing and pulling, forcing me forward until we reached the stretch of carpet that defined his living room. Then something - falling, but not falling, being lowered helpless to the soft floor, and his dark heat pressed into me just as I'd imagined it and pretended not to imagine it.

I would have opened willingly for him at that point, would have helped him get us there, but he didn't want me to help. I could feel it in him, and in myself. I was not a participant in this; I was prey to be devoured.

"What did you come for tonight, Claire," he asked while I struggled underneath him, my breath coming in a high excited whine. "What did you want? Tell me." His voice deceptively mild, stalking me.

"I wanted - you know - please don't make me say it..." I begged.

Wrists pinned above my head in one broad, strong hand. The other pulled my shirt up roughly, exposing my breasts, pinching and tugging at my nipples until I cried out and thrust my hips up against him, moving as much as I could while pinned. Begging wordlessly, mindlessly, to be taken.

"Say it," he told me - "Or I'll stop.."

"No, please it's too much," and his free hand slapped down across my breast, hard, stinging. Again. The hard curve of his cock grinding against me through our clothes, unbearable pressure where I was soaking wet, ready, hot electricity up and down my spine with every slap, every rough grinding thrust against my clit. Never letting me relax, pushing me so much higher and farther than it had ever gone before. I can't stand this, I thought dimly, I'll explode. I'm going to die right here on his carpet.

"Tell me you little slut," he whispers, and then the side of my face is hot, stinging. He slapped me. Not hard, not brusing, but he actually, no one's ever, oh my god oh god...

I went over the edge in one long, dark spill. My body twisted, arcing under him, coming explosively. Bucking and writhing and babbling, begging to be fucked, to be used and taken, I don't remember what I said but it must have satisfied him. When I came back to something resembling earth, when the fiery explosions behind my eyes faded, I was naked - he was naked - and I was moaning under my breath with each steady thrust of two thick fingers into my pussy, counterpoint to the soft wet sound of the penetration, his thumb gliding slow circles around my clit. He was watching, smiling down at me with that mocking dark smile.

"Good girl, such a good girl," he told me, almost crooning to me, "So wet for me. So pretty and helpless for me. And you love it, you love every second of it. You love knowing that you're about to get fucked and there's not a god damned thing you can do about it."

"Mmnn...yes..."

For a second there was emptiness, as he withdrew; dazed, I watched him lick my wetness from his knuckles. Then I was eclipsed again, and his sticky fingers were pushed into my mouth; he made me suck them clean for him, watching while I did it. I felt filthy, exhilarated.

And when he began to push into me, the broad cock that I hadn't even really seen yet forcing me open wide, he kept my wrists pinned down by my sides and his head resting on my shoulder watching our bodies come together...and I came - again and again - a string of firecrackers going off along my spine, explosions that left me unable to do more than curl my legs around his hips, whimper my pleasure each time the contractions hit. He growled approval into my ear and though I can't remember how long it went on, I know he bit me again when he came, leaving a matching ring of bruise on my right shoulder, just at the base of my throat.

I don't remember much after that. Just daylight, and soft blankets under me, and the smell of coffee; and when I opened my eyes again, Bill sitting on the side of his bed, watching me. Tense. Waiting to see if he'd gone too far.

So I smiled at him, and stretched luxuriously, feeling every sore muscle and bruised spot, feeling an incredible rush of endorphin, the new day opening with a hazy, sated glow.

"What's for breakfast?" I asked.

Catharsis

2008-01-20T23:08:00.000-06:00

It's only the 20th! It hasn't been a month yet!

God, I'm a fucking slacker. :P

Catharsis

There is a storm in me; and sometimes it seems my whole life is just a struggle, endless and without victory, to control it. To bury the tempest.

In my youth I would hold it inside, that typhoon's worth of rage seething and brewing till it seemed my skin would split, hot blood pouring out, my very bones wrenching themselves apart. With no outlet, I retreated into a word the size of my bed; lay curled into myself all night, aching, weeping, unable to name my rage or to move on from it to something better, healthier. Pacing my little room-jail, trembling, wanting only to lash out and purge the fire within. To hit, scream, destroy. I never knew another way to pass through those nights; there was the forbidden violent release, or the unbearable silent hours spent alone, arms wrapped around my belly, filled with horrible black bile like some awful god or devil were trapped inside me, clawing to get out.

Sometimes books would let me escape, worm my way out of the rage into someone else's world.

Sometimes masturbation helped; grinding fingers into myself, horrible fantasies that would shame me in the morning, but it was a way to get off. Trying to be so, so quiet. If I wasn't careful, there would be a bruised spot next to my clit afterward, a sore, swollen reminder.

Then you came, and showed me this path. Cured my curse, opened my prison door, and led me out, faltering but wholly yours.

I warned you early, about the rage; how it could paralyse or consume me. I didn't think I would be a good lover, a good love, at least not for more than a night. Too much imbalance. Too broken. I advised you to leave, and you ignored me. And I can never thank you enough.

Now you're my rock, my foundation. My master. When the darkness boils up in me - and it still does, it's how I was made, I don't think I will ever be one of the placid serene people with their stress balls and herbal teas - it's all right, because you know how to lance it, how to draw it away. Somehow you can sense it in me and then your hand is at the back of my neck, your fingers twisted in my hair, asking me, though you already know, if It is back again. If I need You to help me.

Sometimes I can answer, I can ask, though it's incredibly difficult. It's like lifting a heavy, heavy curtain in my head, one that fights me, doesn't want to be lifted. But it's all right. Even when I can't take the weight - when I pull away, sullen, contrary - you know. And so do I.

I fight you. It's what I need, what I've always needed, lashing out, teeth bared, cursing you. But you're so much bigger, so strong; wearing me down until you can grab hold of me, take me to the floor or the bedroom; slide the collar on me, showing me that I can fight, I can claw and writhe and buck, but I am still Yours. Giving me straps to fight against, a gag to scream into. Bleeding away the storm - with time, with exhaustion, with sex and pain and your voice in my ear - caring and mocking at the same time, telling me how very awful I'm being, and at the same time that it's all right. That I'm loved.

You bind me, lash me down, work me into an incoherent lust that burns away everything else inside - the darkness flees it, like mist burned away by the sun - and then you slide into me, becoming one. Our climaxes, together like this, are huge, explosive things, too big for bodies to bear. I love feeling you shake against me, hearing the growl of your pleasure in my ear; we've saved each other again. found equilibrium together again.

Now, I can cry, and it's a good thing, cleansing and healing. I'm purged, floating on love and endorphins; I'm free. Whatever woke my darkness, we'll be able to talk about it, fix it together.

But first, my tears, like rain.

Research, pt. 2

2007-12-26T21:04:00.000-06:00

It's all the dialogue that's giving me fits on this one, I think. I'm not used to writing other people's words. It's strange and unwieldy.

Still, there's just an epic sex scene left and then I can put this one to bed...so to speak. And follow it with something less wordy!

Enjoy.

First, nothing; then a car alarm, going off inside my head. Making my brains vibrate. It doesn't even register as pain at first, just a horrible dark throb, then I groan pitifully and bury my head under a pillow.

I'm awake, hungover, confused, upset, and alone.

Somewhere in the back of my head, hiding behind liquor-fried neurons and sticky sleep haze, are last night's vague memories. Of Devon driving me home, and how neither of us said a word the whole way. Of handing him my door key because I wasn't sure I could find the lock. Leaving him in the front hall while I stumbled to my bedroom, alone, tore off the stupid clothes, fell into bed and then, blackness.

The warm, unfamiliar not-blanket I'm wrapped in turns out to be his jacket.

Must have a shower. Hot water beads down on me, sweating out all the bad; aspirin for the headache, vitamins for the other corporeal woes. There's no need to think about anything yet. I lather, rinse, repeat every square inch of skin, running out the hot water, delaying. But when I finally exit, towel-wrapped and beginning to feel human again, he's still here. Sprawled awkward in sleep across my couch with all his clothes on, scruffy, snoring.

Damn.

I could hit him. Now's the best time for it, really; after so many years I know how difficult he is to catch with a headstart. I could get the lily vase from the kitchen and pour it over his head, flowers and all, though my couch would never recover. Dump his duplicitous, perverted, presumptuous ass on the floor and watch him crawl away. Climb on top of him and kiss his sleep-soft mouth till I'm trapped in his arms, pressed against the admirable swell of cock I tried not to notice on the trip home last night. Hit him with a frying pan. Drop the towel and drag him into the shower with me. Set fire to his socks.

Wait. What?

Damn.

For maybe 10 minutes I stand there, watching him sleep, trying to concentrate on violent retribution. On screaming, cursing, throwing household objects.

But in the end it's impossible, so I make breakfast instead.

The bacon's done, eggs are scrambled and I've managed to get some actual cothes on by the time he stumbles into the kitchen. Squinting and sheepish, quiet.

"Poisoned?" he asks when I put food in front of him on the little kitchen/living room divider. "Or is this a last meal for the condemned sort of thing?"

"Just eat," I tell him and for a few more blessed minutes don't have to think about last night. About how it felt, how he tasted, what it means. Part of me wants to freeze this moment. Stay in the kitchen with the smell of coffee around us, his hair uncombed, my feet bare on the linoleum. Balanced.

But things always tip, eventually, one way or the other. When the coffee is gone and the dishes stacked in the sink, he comes closer, leaning next to me, and talks.

Always an unrequited attraction, he says. Nothing he ever thought would work, be reciprocated. He'd left it at friends because the guys I dated were all so different - jocks in college (the only guys who ever seemed to approach me), doctors and lawyers after (the ones my mother pushed me at, and almost all of them dull. Or gay.) No hints, no hopes.

He swears up and down that the convention thing was not intended to entrap or entice me in any way and I can tell, from the genuinely pathetic distressed look on his face, that it's true. I know his fake pathetic distressed look. It's different.

"But still," I say slowly, "You were encouraging it. Whatever was happening, you made it worse."

"Was it really that bad?" he asks, right behind me, carefully not touching. "Really? ...I did press a little. And I'm sorry. I don't want you to think I'm a creep."

"You're a creep." I busy myself putting away the remnants of breakfast. Looking at him right now doesn't seem like a good idea. "Maybe not a manipulative bastard."

"That's something, at least."

When there's nothing left in the kitchen to busy myself with, I give up and collapse onto the couch, looking for answers in the ceiling. Devon takes a spot on the floor next to me, where he can lean his head back against my hip. For a while we're quiet, trying to regain our easy companionship.

"I don't like how it felt," I tell him. "I mean. I liked it then. I don't like it now."

He looks over at me and smiles. "You don't like how much you liked it," he says. "I get that. It's powerful, and anything that affects our emotions that powerfully is fucking scary."

I nod. He nuzzles my hip a little, comfortingly, and I find I'm toying with the ends of his hair with my free hand, smoothing out tangles, taming it.

"It was like the ground fell out from under me. I was on my feet, and safe, with you, in a brightly lit public place, with nothing real to be afraid of, but inside I was falling."

"That's part of the appeal, though," he says. "The falling. Losing control. Trusting someone enough to give up that control, and fall."

"Like skydiving," I say, half skeptical.

"Like skydiving. With orgasms."

The back of his head rests warm and heavy against my hip, a solid, reassuring contact. I can see his face in profile against the kitchen light; eyes closed, long golden-haloed fringe of lashes against his cheek. He does have a nice mouth. I'd never noticed before.

"I'm afraid we'll wake up afterwards and I'll realize 'oh shit, my best friend tied me up and spanked me and made me cum' and I'll be humiliated and never be able to talk to you again." I have to close my eyes to say it, feeling the blood rising in my face. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm pathetic."

"We can take turns," he offers instantly. "You can tie me up and spank me and make me cum. I draw the line at diapers, though. And pink frilly aprons. And toys you need an electrician's licence to operate."

"Damn you! Stop making me laugh, it's unfair."

I poke his shoulder accusingly, and before I can pull my hand back he's turned, captured my fingers in his warm mouth, nipping at them. Suckling. The current moves from fingertip to groin almost instantly and I shudder, no way to hide the reaction - too sudden, too strong. When I open my eyes, when I can't *not* look anymore, he's staring back at me, all wickedness. Taking my hand in both of his so I can't pull away, warm rough tongue against my fingers, between them.

"Devon - oh god. I can't," I tell him, and am astonished to hear how soft my voice is, how it trembles. "Please. I don't know what to do like this."

He releases my fingers with a soft, moist slurp that makes my spine flex, hips rising involuntarily...a raw sound, a sex sound. Then he's climbing over me, one knee between my thighs on the couch, his hands by my shoulders...not holding me down, but close. "You don't have to know what to do," he whispers to me. "You don't have to do. Just allow. Trust. Let go."

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back, surrendering. Parting my lips hungrily. Waiting for his kiss.

The velvet brush of his lips against mine, nibbling, without pressure.

"Say yes," he tells me.

I shake my head slowly, rubbing my mouth across his, savoring the texture, the hint of his flavor. Standing at the precipice, feeling the wind go through me, waiting for it...

"Yes," I say.

2007-12-20T21:28:00.000-06:00

Last post 10 days ago, last story more than two weeks ago. It is to sigh.

I make no promises, but I am still working at this. Part 2 Scene 1 is scribbled on a piece of paper I've been carrying around with me; I'll try and finish tonight.

And something Christmassy for, you know, Christmas.

Or maybe something Hanukkah-y. Who knows? ^_^

Hope you are all doing well.

Ooh, multiple sugasms... SUGASM #109

2007-12-10T21:20:00.000-06:00

Sugasm #109

Orchid courtesy of Erotic Garden.

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 #110? 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

Body Image In Art, Porn & Media

"Imposing it upon myself, or accepting that someone else has the right to impose it upon me, is something I can refuse to do."

The Importance of Getting Tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections

"I am taking care of myself. I wish they would do the same."

When Natural Doesn't Feel Natural at All

"I'd kept mine neatly trimmed for so long, then cleanly shaved, that I couldn't remember what I look like in full and natural form."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Pic(k) of the Day

Editor's Choice

Darkroom Fantasy

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

Erotic Writing and Experiences

A Blow By Blow Lesson

The Butch/Femme Tango

CyberGirl and I last nightâ€¦

Endless to everlasting

Happy Birthday

"He"

I told her of my blog

Making love, man to man

MILF Barbie

Confessions: My First Blowjob

O

The Other Side Of The Table - Part 4

Possession

NSFW Pics & Videos & Audio

Ekaterina (Hegre)

HNT: Downblouse/Upskirt Tease

Kimberley Franklin - White High Heels

Orchid

Shay Laren dancing topless

Sex History

Antique Tommy Also Came

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

"The Dinner Party"

Dipping My Toes In Foreign Waters - Polyamory

World AIDS Day

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Catalina loves XXXmas Shopping

The Cone

From Object to Subject

Memphis Monroe HotMovies Interview

My reason

NEW Blogging Designs!

Sexy's New Holiday Center & Erotica Contest - Win $25.00!

Sex Poetry

The Crescendo

Half-Nekkid Haiku

BDSM & Fetish

Blow-up dolls

An Erotic Picnic

Goody Fellatrix

Iâ€™m TOO submissive

My Play Piercing Video

Soulmates Reunited

Tale of a Shoe Fucking Piss Slut

Wait.

Webcamming, Bondage, and Amateur Porn...

Late late late for SUGASM #108

2007-12-10T21:03:00.001-06:00

...and I made the top three again, too. (which is unspeakably awesome)

Clearly, I should be punished for my abominable tardiness.

Sugasm #108

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 #109? 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

From virgin cocksucker to blowjob queen

"I love to play and tease with my hand and tongue, lightly licking, sometimes using my panties or another soft fabric to run across the shaft."

Interlopers

"Oh yes, I've seen it all before, I know what you're here for."

Old Friends

"His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The Count

Editor's Choice

Hot and Cold

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Cuffed Off Guard

Dream #10

Mattress Navigation

Metal

More ideas of my own.

Naughty girl confesses

Or just submitting... (Part 3 about S)

PART 2 -She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile

Pre Game: Sex Camp, Antici...pation

So Delicious

Sex Poetry

Haiku Festival of Erotic Power and Rope

Sex News & Reviews

5 Naughty Gift Sets to Get for Christmas

Feminists Make Better Mates

Fetish Film - Outpatient (Latex, Bondage, Breathplay, Femdom, Spanking)

Intern Sex Toy Review - The Turbo Stroker

Kama Sutra Bliss

NEW Kinky Designs!

Toying With Pleasure - Jamye Waxman

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Emotional Sex is Too Much Work - Who Does She Think She Is?!

More Precious Than Flattery

One way, not the other - why don't women get eaten out more?

Potential, Real

Sex Advice & Interviews

4 Advanced Cunnilingus Techniques

5 tips to being a sexy "cougar"

"Dancing With Werewolves"; an Interview with Spanking Superstar Niki Flynn

Erotic Writing and Experiences

The Alley: Man working abroad

Almost a Zipless Fuck

Bathtime

HNT: Rehabilitation IV - The Return of the Cake!

Hooky

In the Laboratory

The list of notches on my bedpost

Lunch

More MILF (Men I'd Like To Fuck)

"She"

Sugarbutch Star: Jefferson

Touch

A train experience

What it feels like for a girl...who wants to make another girl come

NSFW Pics & Videos & Audio

Audio: Red Wine Seduction

A Busy HNT

Leg Language by Andrew Blake

Peek-a-Boo Map

Pornsaint Kayla Jane Danger

Tiang Fang - White

Veronica (MC Nudes)

Research

2007-11-28T21:21:00.000-06:00

Note: I've never been to the sort of event I'm describing here, more's the pity. I'm extrapolating from science fiction conventions I've been to, and things I've read. Hopefully I got it right, or at least close. Enjoy!

-------------------------------

"I'll give you $50," he said. "And my eternal gratitude."

This is dumb. I know it - hell, HE knows it. It's the sort of idea you see in bad romantic comedies - the kind where Pretty But Shy Girl pretends to be something completely different so she can win Handsome Suave Guy who, it turns out, was actually Nerdy Shy Guy doing the same thing. Where someone's always climbing out a bathrom window or unable to eat gourmet food without Amusing Mishaps.

I hate those movies. But I do like money. It can be exchanged for goods (like the new Guitar Hero) or services (like the car repair I've been putting off way, way too long).

I'm going to be so sorry.

"A hundred," I tell him, and wave away the protest. "I wouldn't even daydream about it for fifty. And you pay for my ticket, and any clothes, and dinner."

He whines and bitches, tries to bargain or argue me down, but in the end I get my way. It isn't like he's poor. I wouldn't say he makes more money than God, but I hear they go to the same parties. And for the service he's requesting, you need a high-priced 'escort' - hard to pull off the necessary visible affection and comfort level - or a kinky girlfriend - scratch that too. Or an old, old friend. A partner in crime.

We've been that for each other since high school. In and out of principal's offices together, fired from multiple minmum wage jobs together, there was even a single night in jail. Though technically, that one wasn't our fault. Technically.

"Let's see what you've already got that we can use," he says, and heads towards my bedroom full of drive and purpose. "Do you have a dog collar? Didn't you used to have a dog?"

...I'm going to be SO sorry.

********

What impresses me, right off the bat, is the hotel staff. A few leer, or glare disapprovingly, but mostly the faces above the uniforms show bland, unflinching boredom. "Not only have I seen this before," their eyes tell me, "I've cleaned up after it." For their sakes I hope these people tip well.

My friend, among other things, is a blogger. An amateur journalist, using the funds from his paying job to travel around, see bizarre and unusual things, and write about them on the Internet. Thus we are in this hotel, attending a function for which he required a suitably clothed and willing companion of the female persuasion.

It's a BDSM/fetish convention.

Now, I'm not really kinky, but I don't exactly revile this sort of thing, either. Grownups can do whatever they want. And I read the news, I stay up to date on stuff. But apparently this 'con' is in its sixth year here in the city where I reside and I'd never even heard of it.

Not sure what I expected, but this isn't it. A large percentage of the crowd is...well, normal. Not old and troll-like, not young and model perfect; just people, lots of jeans & t-shirts, some suits and pretty dresses, people smiling and walking comfortably alongside those who did dress up for the occasion. Lots of piercings (the good, piercing studio, taken-care-of sort), lots of collars, corsets, incredible boots. Latex and rubber and, wow, a few gas masks, that's interesting stuff, it looks very uncomfortable.

Devon, my friend with the $100, doesn't look bad; white t-shirt crisp and clean, leather pants, motorcycle boots with a silver chain. I very nearly match - but instead of boots I have 3" spike heels with an ankle strap, making me almost as tall as him, and a super tiny leather skirt, belly baring white tank top, and his leather jacket draped over my shoulders.

And a collar. I'd hoped he was joking. Then I'd hoped he'd give up when I told him my dog ("Missus Prinzee") had been a papillon and her collar (pink) would hardly fit my wrist, let alone my neck. But no, he remembered. And took me out to buy one. At least they're sort of a fashion mainstream now and we didn't have to go into a sex shop to get it; we went to Hot Topic. And he picked it out and made me try it on right there in the store in front of bored jaded teenagers with dyed hair. Put it on me himself, actually...standing close with his arms around my shoulders, hands under my hair buckling the leather snug around my throat, it was kind of...

Embarrasing. Yeah, it was totally embarrasing, all right.

So here I am tottering through the crowd on too-high heels with a collar around my throat and a red wig on my head. I insisted on that last. I'll do this, but I don't want anyone to know I did it, you know? I've already recognized one or two people from work. Not people I would have expected, either.

The hotel seems consumed with this crowd, overrun. Every other room on the first floor has a party or an exhibition. Devon wants to see everything, go everywhere, and this is why I'm along; some of those rooms won't let single guys in. And we know each other well enough to put on a good couple act. Holding hands, or just his arm around me, lightly touching my hip or the part of my waist that's exposed between top and skirt. The jacket is warm and smells a little smoky, a little woodsy, like his cologne.

One room has a rope tying/bondage demo and we stay there for maybe half an hour, watching pretty girls get tied up. Some are fully clothed and the ropes just go over everything; some are in their underwear, one or two daring ladies strip down for the crowd and wow, the guys doing the tying don't go to any effort at preserving their modesty. The girls all seem to enjoy it. One pretty caramel-skinned Latina with perfect handful breasts, wearing a white thong and nothing else, undergoes shibari - Japanese rope bondage - and it's like they're doing macrame with her as the centerpiece, as the ropes get tighter and more elaborate she gets more flushed, breathing harder, goosebumped; heavy-lidded eyes, pert little nipples sticking out, a damp patch making the thong nearly translucent. I'm transfixed. Wondering what the rope feels like against her skin; if it is more or less difficult to bear than the gaze of a roomful of strangers.

The nagging pressure at my side suddenly catches my attention and resolves into Devon, tugging at his jacket sleeve. "Next room," he says, then leans in close. "Are you ok? Want to take a break? We can get you a soda.."

"Uh. No. S'ok, I'm good," I tell him. "It's just a little warm with all these people around. Let's go, I want to, ah, see what's next."

He looks at me closely for another second, then shrugs and we're off.

There are room parties sponsored by businesses, one or two that make fetish clothing - all the latex and leather and rubber stuff. Devon tells me they hire people to wear their clothes in the room and serve drinks to whoever passes by, it's good advertising. I sip various candy-colored libations with high alcohol content while Devon talks to people in fantastic costumes, 'idle chatter' that's probably providing lots of great material for his blog.

Once, a man in a suit comes over and talks quietly to Devon for a moment. I think we're being thrown out, but they both look at me and smile. Approving smiles. Then Devon shakes his head, apologizing for something; the other man nods, accepting with good grace. They shake hands, and he vanishes back into the crowd.

As we move on (to what will turn out to be a room full of sex toys, including this black and red teeter-totter-like contraption with a dildo poking out the center that costs more than I make in a month...and we got to watch someone ride it, too), I ask what the gentleman wanted, and Devon looks down at me for a second with an odd smile.

"He wanted to know if I would share you," he tells me, and we walk on while I try not to choke on my drink. That man...that well-dressed, normal looking, salt-and-pepper haired gentleman assumed that Devon was my...I don't know...boyfriend, husband...owner? And asked him if he could...

"Wow," I manage to say after a few seconds.

Then there's the dildo room and I almost forget the guy. Toys! In colors! Everything from realistic, normal-sized, penis shaped, non-vibrate-y cocks to things that I don't think were actually seriously meant to fit inside any human body. And the teeter-totter. Shiny steel, something in a locked display case that I understand is *actually made of gold*, and some genuinely beautiful glass toys that I can't imagine lubing up to slide into myself. Except I can. Wow. Devon comes up behind me while I'm looking at those, and lets me know that, since they're made of Pyrex stuff, they can be warmed, or chilled, before use.

"They're a lot of fun, actually," he says, and smiles. And wanders off again while I'm getting dizzy thinking about slippery and hard and warm and cold...

I get my revenge a minute later, though, when I bring him over to look at the slender steel rods I've found. They're urethral sounds, and some of them can be electrified. I tell him this, gleefully, and watch his eyes cross a little at the thought.

"We're going to shop for a little while - about an hour from now there's an exhibition I really want to see," he says as we leave that room. "If you want to get a drink, or visit the facilities, now's the time."

The ladies' room is...interesting. While I'm washing up I notice the lady next to me is dressed in a conservative business suit and looking very nervous. "First time?" I ask her, and she blinks at me, very deer in the headlights.

"I'm on a business trip!" she tells me, sounding a little panicked. "I'm from Kansas! Nobody warned me! I would have stayed at the Motel Six if they'd just told me!"

Poor thing.

The merchant hall is huge, and packed. We wander around for the hour exploring everything; Devon asking hundreds of questions, chatting with the vendors and the customers, being personable and charming; I follow along, try to look decorative, remind myself that the $100 is for my car and not for shopping.

Not that I'd want any of this stuff. Though some of the t-shirts are awesome. There's a bumpersticker that says "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair."

Fifteen minutes to the exhibit, we leave the merchant hall; I'm carrying a big bag of Devon's stuff. He sits me down at a little table in the hotel bar, gets me a soda, and takes the bag. "I got a room upstairs," he tells me, "And I put the stuff from the car in it, in case you want to change before you go home. I'm gonna dump this up there too, and then I'll come back. Don't wander off."

"I won't," I promise. "I'm doing what you tell me tonight, yes?"

He stares at me for a moment, kind of odd. Distracted. Then he smiles, a confusing smile, so that I have to look away, have to try not to blush. I'm sure it's from the booze. Those candy things packed a punch.

Then he's gone. I try to look aloof, uninterested in the people who might be looking at me, might be thinking about coming over. I get some appreciative glances, but I'm left alone until Devon gets back.

"Ok, that's done," he says. "Whipping demo time!"

"What?" I say, sharply, but then we're moving and it's crowded and loud. And he wouldn't answer me anyway. Bastard.

The exhibition is in a small auditorium type room with a little stage at one end. There's some kind of metal stand up there, sturdy, almost 9' tall, all black and sinister. And we must be a few minutes late, because there's a guy onstage in just cargo pants, barefoot, long blonde ponytail, and he's chaining a petite girl to this thing by her wrists, pulling them up over her head. I try not to listen to the chain rattling while Devon and I find seats. He has a notepad, taking notes, watching avidly. I feel inclined to panic.

The blonde man gives a little introductory speech, tells us his helper's names, verifies that they're all eager volunteers. The chained girl's name is Julie and she smarts off a little to the guy, getting a big laugh. I guess she can get away with it considering what she's up there for.

Then blonde man has an implement, it's a long piece of stiff leather with a tag on the end, he says what it's called - I'll never be able to remember - and starts tapping the girl with it, very lightly. She's turned away so all we can see is her back, her round little ass, curvy thighs and her calves standing out a little because he's chained her up so high, she's on tip-toe. The leather taps against her calves, strokes up and down her inner thighs - and by the way she moves, it tickles a little. Blonde guy backs up a step, says something to her that I can't hear from where we are. Then his arm comes back, goes forward fast.

The noise makes me jump in my seat. Then *she* makes a noise, a long low moan...not a sound of displeasure, and I feel something electric go down my spine and into my belly. My toes curl in the shoes, my breath catches, and Devon looks over at me. He doesn't say anything.

Blonde guy beats the girl for maybe...five minutes? The whole hour? I can't remember. Varying strokes, across her ass, making it shake and leaving bright pink stripes. Up across her creamy pale back, down to torment the soft curvy thighs. Julie moans, whimpers, cries out, but doesn't try to avoid the stripes. Sometimes it seems like she's leaning into them.

Like she wants more.

I'm transfixed through the whole thing. Can't look away. Shivering a little each time the leather hits her skin. Devon's notepad lies forgotten on his thigh; he looks at the girl for a while, looks at me for a while, watching both of us.

After the first minute he leans in close to me, brushing wig strands away from my jaw with a finger so he can murmur right in my ear. "Listen to how the sound changes on different parts of her body," he tells me. "Listen to how her sounds change."

After the five minutes Julie is drooping in her bonds, and blonde man releases her, kisses her and helps her off the stage. Someone wraps her in a white terry robe and she waves at the audience before disappearing offstage, to much applause and whistling. "Painslut," someone says approvingly, and I have to close my eyes for a minute. Why is this happening?

The next one is another girl, tall and athletic, and she yelps loud and sharp every time she's hit, writhing. With her height they have to secure her differently, she looks almost crucified against the dark metal stand, and blonde man (and another guy, this one swarthy, bearded) take turns displaying how different striking implements work, how they sound, how to hit with them. Three or four different people - another woman, a couple men - are tied to the stand in turn, each treated differently, each waving from their white robe afterward.

Then the blonde man asks for volunteers.

I'm lost in my own head at this point, my whole body one big throbbing pulse. Even my fingertips and my feet feel hot. I need air. I'm about to ask Devon to take me outside when he leans close again, one hand on my upper thigh this time, and his skin is even hotter than mine.

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" he asks me, in a very low direct voice. "Would you like to be up there? I could make that happen."

Yes! No. What?

And then, suddenly, I'm outside the hotel. It's dark, chilly - I think I dropped his jacket. It was too much, that's all. I pace a little, holding my elbows and breathing, and then Devon is walking up to me, slowly. Not coming too close.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."

That makes me laugh, because I don't know *what* I felt. "I don't..." I say, and stammer a little. "I'm confused."

"It's ok. It's been a long day." He holds out his jacket to me, still not coming close, giving me the option. "We can go get your clothes and take you back home. If you want we can save dinner for another day, too. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"...it's ok." I try and smile, take the coat back and wrap it around myself. "But I am tired. Home sounds good."

He leads me back to the elevator, standing close, but not touching me; I miss the pressure of his arm across my back. Past the bar, and I see Julie sitting inside, sharing a drink with the blonde man. They look at each other like old lovers, comfortable, happy.

The elevator music is familiar. It nags at my head as we go up five floors. It's Aerosmith's "Pink." This surreal night is now complete.

Devon's room is small - well, he never intended to sleep here. Strictly a stuff-storing, clothes-changing room. My little duffel bag is on the bed, reassuringly normal, with TENNIS SHOES inside, oh thank you god. I crawl onto the coverlet after it. He can probably see my panties but I no longer care.

There's a single leather chair against the opposite wall and Devon sits there, watching as I struggle out of the heels. "I'm sorry again," he tells me. "I didn't mean for things to get that...intense."

I shrug. Trying not to think about it.

"If it's any consolation, you look particularly beautiful when you're all turned on like that."

...damn it. No. I do not want to feel that electricity now, I want it to be gone like the whipping post is gone, in my past. "Devon...don't..." I hear myself protest, and curse myself for it. It sounded weak.

"But it's true." He has that strange smile again, making me feel hunted. "The way you shivered when he was beating that girl...the look on your face when I told you someone asked to have you. You liked it."

I can't answer that, can't even look at him, and it isn't fair. This whole thing was his idea. I only came as a favor. It wasn't supposed to be about me at all, and now it is. I feel like crying. Or fucking. Or something.

"Come here," he says,

"No," I answer, but by the time I get the word out, I'm already off the bed. Barefoot and bare-shouldered with the collar a line of warmth around my neck. "This isn't supposed to be about me," I try to explain as my body moves itself across the room to him.

"I know. I didn't actually mean for it to go like this," he tells me gently, while he's reaching out to touch me, to slide his hands up and down my thighs, to the hem of the skirt and back. "But you got caught up in it and watching you get caught up in it like that, well. I'm going to do something, and then I'm going to take you home and leave you there all safe, and if you want to kick my ass tomorrow, I will present it for kicking."

"What..." I start to say, and he cuts me off.

"Kneel down for me, hon."

Another shudder through my body, this feeling that takes my brain away for a second, how does that work? It's never been like that before. And here I am on my knees in front of him. I'm lost. He could do anything he wanted with me right now. Part of me wants that.

He's leaning forward, looking right in my eyes. Cradling my face in one hand. "You've been drinking," he says, a little disappointed. "I'd never take real advantage of that. But we both need this right now. Close your eyes, pretty."

Everything is dark. His mouth brushes against mine, feather light.

"I've always wanted you," he whispers, and then we're kissing.

Part 2 forthcoming

Meta: Style

2007-11-28T18:54:00.000-06:00

So, now that I've been doing this for more than a month, and I've got more-than-ten stories...I think... I'm noticing a couple things.

I'm better at writing about things-I've-never-done than I thought I'd be. Comes from all the blog reading, I suppose. :P

I haven't written about anything that *doesn't* turn me on. Though, admittedly, that's not a big category. Anything other than extremely mild femdom, like in Bonbon (if that even counts), does nothing for me. Nothing wrong with it, just...wow, really not me. Exhibitionism and being publicly displayed is arousing, but only if I'm thinking of it in terms of someone else; I would *hate* being so displayed myself. In a real, screaming, hiding in a closet, hard-limit sort of hate.

I tend to not want to name my characters, or at least it doesn't seem to happen right away. Usually, if there's a name, it shows up somewhere in the middle and it's something very normal.

Titles usually come after the story is done. I have trouble with them. Except for 'Dichotomy'. That made me cackle as hard as the original idea did.

I start out writing by hand in a spiral notebook, but my hand gets tired (shush, perverts) and I usually finish them in Wordpad.

Sometimes they come as images (The girl in the leather chair in 'Bonbon'), sometimes as words (First sentence of the story I'm almost finished with and will be posting later this evening). Sometimes it's just a plot and the story gets written around it.

And finally...a month or more later...I'm still having fun. I've been reading blogs (and before that, fanfiction...) long enough to not obsess over whether or not I get comments, but I *do* check Statcounter.com every day to see what exotic locales I'm getting readers from. I have a regular in Kuala Lumpur, Kampuchea! Hello there! I don't know you, but you're awesome. Singapore, the Middle East, South America, and once somebody ran me through altavista.babelfish.com so they could read the site in Italian. \o/

And now, I'm off. I have a story to finish.

Sugasm #107

2007-11-27T17:30:00.000-06:00

Sugasm #107

Tara courtesy of Tara Tainton.

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 #108? 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

Half-Nekkid Blow Job

"We could hear people walking past and talking so they'd be able to hear us as well."

Masturbation on a Memory

"I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind."

Reality Check: Handling Long Calls

"While I get my share of quick cummer calls I have several clients that like to talk for hours."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Christian Friis

Editor's Choice

A Non-Monogamy Lexicon

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Bad Girl

The Driving Lesson

The First Date part one

Flirt

Late Meeting

Night Call

Over the tub

Saturday night special

Sweet Dreams

Sex Advice

Bringing It Up Gracefully

I Donâ€™t Need Porn, I Get Real Sex!

Prince Albert for thanksgiving

NSFW Pics & Videos

Aria Giovanni sexy video

Catalina loves her New Black Silk Corset and Boots

Pornsaint Popwhore

WebMistress Feature Gallery: Flirting with the Camera

BDSM & Fetish

Big Fun in a Small Space

Double Dip Part 2

I don't chase

Ideas of my own.

My Reformatory Birching

The Perfect Implement of Pain

Rope as a tool for Intimacy

She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile

YouPorn, MePorn

Sex News & Reviews

Fetish Film - Julie Simone's Diary Of A Submissive (Bondage, Spanking, Femdom)

Five Sips of Darkness

Special Discount for Our Naughty Friends!

Sex Poetry

Tulipsâ€¦ His lipsâ€¦ Her lipsâ€¦

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Me and My Vagina

Oh..oh...oh! My orgasm- A User's Guide.

On Self Image and Confidence

An orgasm faker wannabe

Relationship Rules

Retail Therapy

Sex Humor

Decoding A Dominant Personal Ad

Happy Thanksgiving!

Old Friends

2007-11-27T01:30:00.000-06:00

It's almost three on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon; I'm early, but early is better than late. When I left work about an hour ago, my boss told me to have a good time. She thinks I've got a standing once-a-month dinner with my great-aunt. It's the only real scheduling concession I've ever asked for, so she's happy to let me go.

"Thanks! I always do," I told her. And it's the truth. Just...not the way she means it.

My 'appointment' is on the third floor of a nice apartment building uptown, where I am now standing, waiting for John to open his door. John is older, but not elderly, and certainly not a relative. Married, but not to me.

Sometimes I feel bad about that, though I take none of his money and hardly any of his time. That's probably not enough for absolution... but I've come to accept what I am. What I need.

Two, maybe three dozen times I've come here and I still get nervous, it's still a surprise when the door opens and there he is. Smiling blue eyes, shirtsleeves rolled up, a glass of wine for me. "You're a little early," he says. "Good girl."

I have occasionally contemplated having my name legally changed to "Good Girl", if it meant I could hear him saying the words more often. His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.

He takes my jacket and leads me into the apartment, into the dining room. Food is first, always light and delicious, something to keep our strength up. John and I really have known each other forever, he's been a friend of my family since before I came along to join it 20 years ago; my father's business partner. Every holiday he's at the table, every birthday party he's there with a tasteful gift. So there's plenty for us to talk about while we dine. Innocent conversation. As if neither of us had any idea, any intention of more wicked pursuits.

That's part of the foreplay, of course.

(Once, I grew frustrated with the pretense. I stopped eating in the middle of dessert, stood up, stripped down to stockings and panties right there, while he watched. Laid myself supine across the table, knees bent, shamelessly exposed, and slid two fingers between my legs. Writhing and shuddering and getting myself off right in front of him. He sat and watched without a sound, finished his wine, then pulled me off the table and onto my knees. Hands in my hair, pulling me down, making me suck his cock until he exploded...at least I knew he'd enjoyed the show. And after he came, wiped my mouth gently and sent me home frustrated and nearly in tears. The next time, I'd behaved myself impeccably, showing proper contrition, and we had a wonderful evening.)

Tonight we have salad - mesclun, baby spinach, red anjou pears, seared steak perfectly rare - and appropriate wine, followed by strawberries with black pepper and balsamic vinegar. Brandy, after. We clear the table together in companionable silence.

He guides me into the bedroom, one hand at my lower back, like a gentleman.

Strange, how everything here is light and clean. Ivory linen, blonde wood, brass, porcelain. Simple straightforward lines. On the wall over the bed, an O'Keefe, as tall as I am and blazing black and scarlet, catching the eye with shocking, sensual colors.

The poppy is his favorite, he told me once.

We have a routine for this too, a ritual - distancing ourselves from the world outside, from who we are to each other there. Though sometimes I think the ritual only exists so he can violate it - lulling me into complacency until the door closes and we are in his territory. A few times he's caught me out that way and those sessions leave me shaking, speechless, ripped out of myself, rugburned and sore for days.

I couldn't bear it every time. But every once in a while...I need it that way; and he always seems to know, even when I don't.

Today there is no interruption - no sudden pulling at my hair, no rough words. He sits at the edge of the bed and watches me undress. Any lingerie (he's partial to stockings, and old-fashioned lace) is my own, clothes and shoes bought myself; I won't let him buy me those things. He always compliments me on my choices. This time it's all black silk, and I can tell he approves.

"I had that color in mind," he says. "But take everything off for now. Shoes as well. We'll put you in something else."

Naked, I cross the room to stand between his legs, and lean down for our kiss. This is the promise, the seal of our covenant; that I will give myself to him, that he will take good care of me.

It's the last thing we do as equals.

As soon as our mouths part he touches me, cupping my breasts, taking both rosy nipples between his fingers and squeezing hard. Pressure that makes my knees weaken, sets me on fire, a slow molten burn straight down into my groin. Imagine taking a swallow of hot cocoa, just barely below the scalding point; the way it feels, first stinging the mouth, then sinking into you, deep behind your breastbone and descending. It's like that. Right away I'm in that other place, the endorphin junkie submissive place, getting wet and dizzy. When he lets go I have to stop myself pleading for more.

He leaves me by the side of the bed, my hands clasped behind me, demure. Heels together, breathing hard. I hear his keys rattle, hear the cedar chest open behind me. I'm not supposed to look; just trust, and anticipate, and fear. He always shows pity, though, and blindfolds me first, soft leather pads over the eyes, buckled behind my head. So I won't be tempted to peek, to commit Psyche's sin.

First blind, then mute; the ball gag stretching my mouth open wide, filling me perfectly, tightened securely but not to the point of discomfort. Plugs in my ears to muffle all sound, and that's something he's only taken from me once or twice before. Tenderly he gathers up my hair into a ponytail, neat and out of the way.

I stand untouched, waiting, and the seconds stretch out interminably. There's very little rational thought left to me; everything's off balance, out of phase. I remember the first time he had me like this, how I cried behind the blindfold and came when his fingers delicately stroked once over my clit; so lost...so found.

Sensation, his hands on me again, at last; wrapping something around my waist, my chest. I smell leather and feel its soft smoothness against my skin, inhale deeply and hold while he laces me into the corset. It cradles me, confines me, but leaves my breasts exposed. Then the long gloves, lacing tightly all the way up my arms. Boots the same, his careful hands steadying me as I step into them, smoothing the kidskin up my thighs and fastening them as tight as the other garments. Each part of this process takes me a little further away, ritualistically dehumanizing me, turning me from a self-assured professional woman to a pretty, helpless doll. My body feels compressed, blood pounding through arms and legs, even my breathing controlled, made shallow at his whim. By contrast my breasts, belly, sex feel exposed, superbly tender and sensitive; he brushes his fingertips across my left hip and I almost moan behind the gag.

The liberation in this perversity is astounding.

He binds my hands behind me, tight, wrist to elbow, the position pressing my chest outward; then I am guided foward, lifted onto the bed...on my knees...shoulders pushed down, a soft pillow beneath me, a position of helpless subservience. I can see myself in my mind and the depravity of the image is breathtaking, black leather and pale flesh, my legs spread obscenely wide, dripping cunt glistening, open.

Behind me, he raises my ankles - one, then the other - and fastens them somehow to my thighs. A rigid bar between my knees, keeping me open and immobile. There is no Kirsten anymore; she's been subsumed into this living toy, John's doll, a whimpering shuddering thing displayed for his pleasure.

He may be taking photographs. It would not be the first time, and the knowledge that I have no choice, no chance to object, only adds to the fire. My pulse pounds in my head like a bass drum, overwhelming.

Hands slide over my skin. I must assume they are his. Delicate, long-fingered, caressing my ass, tickling along the backs of my thighs until I buck and squirm.

Then - cold, oh god...something hard, slick, cold against my labia, sliding back and forth ever so lightly, pressed over my aching clit for a shocking moment - then back - teasing over my pussy, back and forth, so cold against my heat, until he moves it back even further and I feel the object pressing into my ass. Slow, implacable, stretching and pushing and sliding into me - no pause for my whimpers and cries, just cold and thick, a long undulating shape pushed in and in until the widest point slips past and the oblong base netles snug between my cheeks. He caresses me, letting me settle, almost relaxing - comparatively - then the base is in his fingers again and he slowly fucks my ass with whatever toy this is, its shape stretching me again and again, oh god it feels so dirty, so cold, and I'm crying for him and pushing back, trying to take more, wanting only more fullness, more sensation.

And he takes it away. For a moment I'm empty, and it's almost unbearable. I would accept anything now, punishment, pain; just not empiness, not to be left here with no contact, trapped in my flesh.

He never makes me wait long. After the chill of that first penetration the throbbing heat of his cock sliding into my ass is an intense shock. I'm already stretched, slick with lube, and he fills me easily - though, oh, he's thicker than the toy was, he feels enormous and hot, and it's so good when he starts to fuck me - one or two slow strokes to make sure I'm ready - and then he takes his pleasure with me, his rough dirty pleasure, one hand wrapped around my bound forearms for leverage, pulling me back onto him. The slap of our bodies must be filling the room, the sound of my gutteral cries muffled through the gag, and I can feel myself dripping wet, stuffed full over and over, until his hand tightens on my arm and he throbs inside me, pushing in hard, filling me with hot, sticky come.

Using me. Like I should be used.

***

Eventually, after more play...after punishment and pleasure, he lets me climax. Forces it on me, really, with the damned Hitachi that I love and hate so much, dragging come after hard, bucking come out of me until I can't even moan anymore. Then the soft damp cloth against my flushed exhausted skin, wiping me clean, and all the laces undone, the swooning head-rush of my altered bloodflow finding its equilibrium again. John strokes my hair and tells me what a good girl I am, good girl, his very best girl.

I always knew, always, that I needed something, that I wasn't complete. I never realized it would be this, or that John would be my saviour, my protector. Everything I struggle with is easier, every burden lightened. Every destructive impulse burned out in the intensity of our sex.

Would it work for everyone? Oh, most likely not. I doubt any psychiatrist would approve. Certainly most people would find this sluttish depravity damning.

But for me...it's salvation.

Inevitable

2007-11-23T12:17:00.000-06:00

Sorry for the delay, folks - the holiday week bested me. New stories will commence anon.

j'adore SUGASM #106

2007-11-21T21:14:00.000-06:00

Sanctum courtesy of Erotic Garden.

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 #107? 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

5 Advanced Deep Throat Techniques

"Suck your man's penis into your throat, and, while it is deep in, start to hum."

MILF = Men I'd Like to Fuck

"He knows my body p e r f e c t l y and knows exactly how to make me squirm with pleasure and always knows the right thing to say."

Reconciling Desire & Reality (part 2)

"The excitement of sharing her, the excitement of my arousal THEORETICALLY should mean a heightening of our own sex life."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Our fearless leader tells me he's crazy busy so I'm presenting one from the vaults.

The Six Types of Porn Movie (and How To Get Into Them)

Editorâ€™s Choice

Primed

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

Sex News & Reviews

The End of the Mile-High Club

Fetish Film - Squealer (BSDM, Master, Shibari)

My controversial, nipple-baring Dirty Girls book cover

NEW Culture Shocking Designs!

Sex Toy Review: Mini Bullet One Touch Vibrator

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Am I born as a Whore?

Floral HNT

He's Horny and She's Easy

The Humble Handjob

I'll assume i'm on the naughty list

Minus One

Obsessive Compulsive Slut

Re-discovering myself

So, doc, when can we...

Virgin Extraordinaire

Sex Poetry

Now and Zen

BDSM & Fetish

The **** machine

Erotica: Mind Games

Generic Pussy?

Get the contract signed- part two: vital lessons

Just a Few Naked Pics of Amy's Perfect Body

Naked Service

What a Saturday

What is a Daddy Dom? Pt. 2

Sex Advice

Six ways from Sunday - Cowgirl (reversed or otherwise)

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Bad Girl

Betrayal

Dark Cold Moons

Dichotomy

Halloween

Icing on the Cake

Like Me

The Main Course

Multi-tasking

Second Time Around

Sex Party in the Hood

Stressed Wanking

Sex Humor

Fuck'n Fun

Untitled No. 1

Sex Work

Reality Check: Eating Food

NSFW Pics & Videos

Day trip to porno town

Hannah Hilton Sexy Bikini pics

Lisa wants a spanking

Sanctum

Self-portrait in Boots

A Hot Femdom / Slave Boy Strap-On Scene

Dichotomy

2007-11-14T19:27:00.000-06:00

Writing this made me think of the Pizza Girl character in J. Jaqcues' fantastic webcomic, Questionable Content. None of these characters are based on those and the situation is not one that would likely ever occur in that universe. I just thought I'd give 'em a plug since, you know, QC rocks.

Enjoy!

*************************

Start with hot water.

One of the best parts of growing up is being able to buy things on a whim. No need to ask or explain. So, a clawfoot tub deep enough to really soak myself - and a friend, if necessary - wasn't something I strictly needed. No matter. I wanted it and I got it.

It's the first day of my vacation and everything's arranged, bags packed for the airport tomorrow, reservations confirmed. Sunset played its last few notes and sank behind the skyline almost half an hour ago. All my phones - house, work cell, personal cell - have been turned off. No television chatter, no email chime from the laptop, no PDA, no more anything requiring thought. Just hot, jasmine-scented water; the tub three-quarters full and steaming aromatically in the candlelit master bath, mirrors fogging, something quiet and instrumental on the CD player.

And a knock at the door.

One does not, after all, engineer such an intricately simple evening only to ruin it by cooking.

***

It is fucking cold. I am fucking tired. Mother fucking, cocksmoking Jimmy Vae is making me cover his shift while he goes to a gig with his, get this, Vietnamese punk band.

(It's worse than it sounds. I know it sounds bad, but trust me. WORSE.)

My feet hurt, my ass hurts from the damned broken scooter seat, my last 3 stops didn't tip for shit and my last stop of all is in a fucking skyscraper. Floor 23. I hate heights, I hate winter, I hate this lousy job, I really (really really) hate Vietnamese punk music, and most of all I hate that fucking airwaste Jimmy Vae.

The elevator sways. I pretend just as hard as I can that it isn't.

Long, long hallway with expensive paintings on the walls, real plants in pots by each door. Plush. I'm leaving melty slushy bootprints behind me and I take stubborn pleasure in that. Rich people don't tip. Rich people especially don't tip skinny twentysomething girls with no tits, short hair, too many piercings. At least the night's almost over.

I knock on the door and hope his pizza is cold.

But when the door opens, it isn't a guy. It's a girl. No, it's a woman.

No. A woman.

I rattle off her order & total, running on autopilot, trying not to be too obvious about scoping her out. No tip is one thing, getting jumped by security in the lobby for ogling the rich & famous is another. And she's almost enough to make the rest of the night worthwhile.

Late 30's...maybe early 40's. In shape but not with that scary plastic surgery/gym addict look some older women get. Curvy. Black, black, black hair piled on her head, pinned out of the way but not really done - kind of artless, a few curls hanging down. It looks long. Like it would come down to her waist in back.

Short silk robe, lemon chiffon colored, long long stretch of leg underneath, full breasts, I can smell her jasmine perfume from here, and when she hands me the money I drop it like an idiot. Fucking christ.

I babble out an apology and drop to one knee in the doorway, combing dimes out of the thick carpet, trying not to look up. She laughs, really quiet, and kneels down to help me chase my money.

**********

I had honestly been planning a serene, solitary evening at home. It would have been a time to recharge, to renew my energy, to let go of work and the real world. The adventure was supposed to begin tomorrow, at the airport.

But sometimes you can find adventure at your front door, if you want to.

The girl is adorable. Honestly pretty under the clothes and the attitude, but those things do more to highlight her delicacy than to hide them. Young, tall, slender, almost angular; her mouth full and innocent of lipstick, her eyes lined a sticky liquorice black. Close-cropped blonde hair that I'm already considering running my fingers through.

I think I'm making her nervous. Good.

We kneel together on the soft carpet, gathering the fallen money, and when I hand it back to her I cradle her hands in mine for a moment, holding her still. "No wonder - your hands are freezing, poor thing," I tell her, and stroke them a little, letting my fingertips travel up to her wrist and back. Horribly unfair of me. She won't look up - so young, trying so hard to look brave.

I want to put another look in her eyes.

***********

Her hands are so warm, a soft heat that just sets me on fire everywhere. I've been turned on before - fucked plenty of pretty girls my own age, being bi is like the big thing now, every little freshman chick wants to get down. But this is different, this is new. When she stands up the robe shifts, flashing a creamy pale stretch of inner thigh; I want to force her back, pin her down, bite and kiss and lick and devour.

I'm still kneeling, looking up; she's standing, looking down and smiling. She knows.

"Are you in, or out?" she asks, kind of playfully impatient, like you'd talk to a cat that wouldn't make up its mind. A recalcitrant pussy. Turning, walking away from me into the apartment, leaving me on my knees in the open doorway, and as she walks - a barefoot, hip-rolling sway - the robe slides slowly down her back until only her hips are covered. There's a tattoo. Crimson flowers, hibiscus maybe, from the nape of her neck twining down all the way to the small of her back.

I have never stood up so fast in my entire life.

***********

She closes the door carefully...doesn't let it slam. Good girl. I hear her boots in the hallway, following, hunting me.

Seconds later I can feel her right behind me. I saw the lust in her eyes, before - so raw, powerful, masculine hunger tempered only a little with her insecurity, her youth. Soon she'll be reassured.

We're in the sitting room now, soft light and soft furniture. I reach the center of the room and turn, naked to the waist, feeling how the aroused flush has travelled over my skin, making my nipples hard, beginning that wonderful slick feeling between my thighs. I love being exposed.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Dora," she says. So quiet. She's standing very still, with a hunter's focused intent; staring at me. One or two steps and I'm right there in her personal space, right in front of her, smiling up into her pretty grey eyes, gone dark with arousal right now.

"Dora, would you like to have me?" I ask her, just as quietly. Holding her gaze. "I know that you would."

"You want me to?" she says, low-voiced. Eager. "Have you. Any way I want."

Closing my eyes, slowly, deliberately, on a long inhale, that deep tension growing, the last few moments at the very top of the rollercoaster. "Oh yes," I tell her, and take that last step forward, pressing the length of my body against hers. Feeling her slender, firm, trembling with lust for me. "I do want you to...please?"

Gently I press my mouth against the sharp line of her collarbone, and taste her skin.

********

We're on the floor. I don't remember pulling us down to the floor, but here we are. I'm still clothed, still in my fucking boots of all things, but it doesn't matter, because she's underneath me, lush and hot and bare with the robe fallen open; we are kissing, have been kissing for who knows how long, these incredible deep, wet, mindbending kisses. I pull her tongue into my mouth, bite down - not too hard, just teasing - and she moans helplessly, her body twisting under me, I made her do that.

So many things I'm going to make her do.

I've got my legs spread wide, knees jammed into the carpet, holding her thighs open around mine. It's good to be tall. One hand to support myself, the other free to slide across her body. Cupping her breasts, gently kneading - no silicone, so soft and perfect in my hand, the nipples large and firm and perfect for playing with, and when I do that, she whines. Right into my mouth. Incredible. We're both panting.

I let my hand slide lower, across her gently rounded belly, fingertips dipping into her navel just for a second before passing by. Curving down, short soft fur against my palm, and slick, hot, soft...gliding fingertips just between her lips, all the way down and then back up to hover over her clit. Then again.

She breaks the kiss, letting her head fall back onto the thick carpet. "Please..." she moans, begging. This beautiful woman is begging me to play with her. To take, to have. No need to ask or explain.

I'm absolutely on fire.

"Say that again," I growl against the side of her neck, in between little nibbling kisses that are slowly ramping up to be hard, biting, sucking kisses. "Beg me again."

"Oh please - please Dora..."

She sounds so lost, breathy...when I look, her eyes are wide and dark, her pretty face all flushed, all that long hair falling out of its pins around her on the carpet. Oh, she wants it so bad...

Gently, so gently, I spread her open, getting my fingertips nice and wet. Slippery. Then moving up, slowly up, until I feel her round swollen little clit under my fingers, till I feel the pulsing of her heart through her sex.

Now, she can have what she wants.

I feel elevated, indulgent, strong...watching her bite her full lower lip, writhe and buck under my touch. There's something about taking this beautiful, elegant woman and turning her into, well...

"Look at this," I whisper to her in counterpoint to my fingers sliding back and forth over her clit, finding her rythm, pushing her higher. "Such a pretty lady in such a pretty, fancy place, and here you are on the carpet getting screwed by a stranger."

She closes her eyes, turns her face away, but her body is still rocking with mine. Her heels digging into the carpet, helping her move. Breath getting faster and faster, and the little noises she's making, kitten mewls.. so fucking hot.

"Gonna come for me?" I ask her, and turn my wrist a little. Sliding two long fingers deep inside, where she is velvet soft and furnace hot, trying to keep my thumb against her clit while I...yeah...fuck her. It takes coordination, but I've had practice.

Anyway, it doesn't take long.

**********

For a while, everything is dark and hazy. The world has been wrapped in cotton and packed away, waiting for my body to stop throbbing, for my breath to slow. It's wonderful.

Eventually, though, I come back to myself. Dora is beside me, sitting crosslegged on the carpet, watching me and nibbling on her fingertip. That was just inside me, I think, and shiver. She's absolutely delightful.

Catlike, deliberate, I stretch out, arching my back against the carpet. Her silence changes, becoming watchful and predatory. That's a good game, one I can play.

I roll onto my belly, then to hands and knees, and crawl to my lover, moving sinuously...letting her watch. Leaving the robe behind on the floor. Slowly I come to her and move into her body, nuzzling, curling naked into her lap. Looking up at her with big innocent eyes.

"Thank you," I say, and she grins. It's unexpectedly infectious, and suddenly we're laughing together.

I reach up and trail a finger along her row of silver earrings, the metal cold and slick under my skin. "I've had mine..." I tell her, in a Very Serious Voice. "Now, young lady, I believe it's time for you to have yours."

First, the boots. I kneel in front of her, sitting back on my heels, and take one of her legs in my hands. Playing the good little geisha. I can tell that she's enjoying it. While I'm carefully unlacing, she slips out of her t-shirt - wasn't there a jacket? I don't remember when that came off - and sits barechested, her breasts small and white, perfect pink nipples with a little silver bar through each one.

Boots set aside, I push her legs apart, lean over and unbuckle the wide leather belt. Jeans underneath, that's easy, and plain white panties under that. Her skin, the angular grace of her body, are making me warm again, and I take every opportunity to touch, with fingertips or palms or the backs of my hands. She's silent as I work, breathing slow and deep. Watching.

Finally, the clothes are gone and we are exposed to each other. She's lovely. Sitting with knees bent, apart so I can see every inch of her, arms resting on her knees with false casualness. Her fingertips are twitching a little.

I let my hand rest against her ankle, sliding up slowly to her knee. "Smooth," I murmur, and smile. She's a little ticklish behind the knee, but I leave it alone...maybe later. "You're smooth all over."

Leaning forward, silent, she presses her mouth to mine. A slow deep kiss, not as rapacious as before, but still I feel her need, her tension. The soft, almost subsonic moan, the nip at my lower lip as I pull away. The hand at the back of my neck, long fingers curling gently into my hair.

We look at each other for a long moment; then she presses against the back of my head, pulling me in close, and low. "Do it," she hisses, and oh, I have no objection at all.

Her cunt is neat, shaven, another tiny piercing through the hood of her clit, and soaking wet everywhere. Gentle at first, I lick at her, tasting and exploring, letting my body slide down to lie curled on the floor between her thighs. Sliding my arms around her hips, feeling her tugging urgently at my hair.

She doesn't want gentle. Doesn't want slow. If she was a man she would be deep in my throat right now, holding my head and fucking into me, making me take it...the thought makes me whine, and I bury my face into her, just as eager for it as she is.

She curses and rocks and I rock with her, riding every hip thrust and every wracking shudder, until she comes. Her body goes tense and hard, like marble, she stutters and goes silent, and I open my eyes, watching over the flat plane of her stomach, watching until she cries out like a child and goes limp. Hands sliding away from me to fall beside her.

Perfect.

******

I'd have probably kicked me out afterwards, but we spend the whole evening hanging out. Sitting naked together on her expensive rug, drinking champagne - who actually has champagne just sitting around? - and eating pizza right out of the box. We talk, and it's nice.

After, there's this huge bathtub, it's insane. Big enough for both of us. I get to wash her all over, and it's great, she feels incredible all soft and lush and slick with soap. She calls me a tomcat and shows me where I scratched her upper back, when she was eating me. I guess I should be sorry; instead I feel pleased, kind of proud. Here's this beautiful expensive person and I've left my mark on her.

But she's got a plane to catch tomorrow, and I figure that's that. We exchange numbers, but I won't call. There's a class barrier, no matter what tonight was like, she won't want some scruffy little dyke tagging along at her heels, screwing up business lunches.

I go home. The apartment is empty. Jimmy calls, to tell me how the gig went; I tell him to fuck himself, and his bandmembers, and whatever else he can fit up his enormous ass besides his head, and I tell him a few other things too, and then I hang up on him.

...and a week and a half later, she calls.

SQUEEEEEGASM (aka Sugasm #105)

2007-11-12T20:51:00.000-06:00

Oh, holy crap. I've been doing this for what, a month? And I'm in the top three. I am STUPIDLY happy about this. Thank you!

Sugasm #105

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 #106? 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

Bonbon

"I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I've got him."

Domme virginity lost

I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. You know that, don't you, sweet boy?

Reality Check: Lessons Learned From Clients

"From my conversations I've learned a number of things that have helped me, educated me and surprised me."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Belladonna Likes Heroin

Editor's Choice

Each Mirror has two sides

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Anetta Keys - Mischief In Mind

Carmella Bing - Keeping It Hardcore

Erica Campbell nude by Andrew Blake

The Hottest Babes... Right Here, Right Now

How to behave after sex

Jade | Mirage

Sex News, Reviews & Advice

At least he's not going blind!

Lust, Caution review

NEW Gender Bending Designs

Orgasm - Do You Fake It?

Pierced for Play

Pjur Eros BodyGlide Original Silicone Lubricant Review

Top 7 Horror Porns

Erotic Writing and Experiences

At Your Service

Boy

Catalina loves (Polyamorous) Fantasies - Part II

Confessions: Babysitter

Encounter 2, Part II: All About Jane

Having her cake

How zep got me my first feel of tit

"I'm not having sex with you in here."

A Letter...¦

Sexual Initiation

Splick

Symplexity Presents: The Friendly Skies

An Unexpected Opportunity

Sex Work

In the Heart of Real America: How Porn Made Me a Patriot

BDSM & Fetish

About last night...

Beat Me Baby: A Step in Submission!

Bitch in heat

Dirty, Filthy, Nasty Instructions

Feeling a Twitch

Goofiness

I Will So Whip Your Ass

A Little Fantasy I Wrote For The Mrs.

Masturbation Fantasies

Men are dogs: a fantasy

On Hands and Knees

Re-Education Part 2: A Fantasy

Revisiting the piss slit

Shame, Shame, Shame; Shame of Fools

Whippings in the eighteenth century

Sex Poetry & Recipes

Cooking With Mandy: Get Your Ass In the Kitchen Slut and Spend Some Quality Time With Your Husband Pasta with Shrimp

Friday Poem: Hot Boobs and Spam

Then

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

"As Long As Your Vagina Looks Good..."

Ethical Adultery

Femme vs. Feminine

The Full Body Project, or Fat Can be Sexy, Part 2

Need, Want, Love

Return to sender

Sleepy HNT

Today is "Mom the Minx('s)" Birthday

You Are So Sexy

I Love Spiked Cocoa

2007-11-08T22:23:00.001-06:00

...You saved cedar chips from the tree they cut down two blocks over, a whole bag full of them, just for this. It's November - maybe the last good fall night, winter coming in hard, coveting whatever leaves still cling to the trees in their shrouds of color. Russet, orange, gold. I expect frosted windows in the morning.

Our porch - balcony, whatever - is tiny, barely enough room for us, the old salvaged loveseat we're on, and the little hibachi grill that serves as our fireplace. Still, it's beautiful. All the stars are out and magnificently bright. We're wrapped together in a huge old blanket, sleepy-warm, stuffed with toasted marshmallows and amaretto-laced cocoa. Our breath steams, joining the aromatic woodsmoke on its skyward journey; the CD playing ended ages ago, but we're not ready to go in yet, despite the cold. Here everything is quiet and perfect, sheltered in love.

I'm leaning against you, my back to your chest, your arms wrapped around my waist. Both half-asleep and warm from the alcohol. We could stay like this, I think through the haze; just be here forever in the crystalline dark, us and the glowing cedar coals and the stars overhead.

I don't mean to say any of this aloud, but you chuckle and tell me that eventually we'd freeze, so I guess I did. "It would be a terribly romantic end," I tell you. "Found together in the morning all covered in frost, still embracing. Very Victorian."

Warm fingertips edge under my sweater and skate across my stomach, caressing; seeking. "This is romantic," you say, as your hands slide up to cradle my breasts, no underwear to come between our skin. "I think this is fine, don't you?"

I mumble an answer and snuggle more deeply into your arms. Those fingertips trace soft circles around my nipples, barely touching, bringing them up to stiff little peaks; my head feels heavy, resting back against your shoulder. The sensations making me squirm. Against my lower back you are hard, ready; your mouth so soft, trailing kisses down the side of my neck that fill me with a beautiful slow heat, only half-awake still in this little pocket of warmth.

"We could go in..." I offer. "Warmer...private..."

"I like it right *here*," you say. Toying with me, now, gently pinching and tugging at my nipples, molding my breasts under your hands. Making me crazy. I whine, pleading, turning my face up to you for a kiss.

But you don't oblige, not yet...moving one hand down along my torso, searching, pushing at the waistband of my sweats. Sliding them down my hips. I squirm around, trying to help, making you growl when I accidentally - well, mostly accidentally - brush a hand over your cock, feeling you through soft cotton, hardly any barrier at all.

It's a matter of seconds for us to get there. Our clothes are moved aside just enough under the blanket; then you pull me up into your lap, still facing away. I'm already wet, and you slide into me so easily, stretching and filling me without effort, until our bodies are flush, connected. Wrapped warm and safe in your arms, perfectly full, feeling the pressure of your cock so deep inside me as we rock together. Fucking slow. Little easy thrusts beneath me, your hands steadying my hips, moving us in delicious counterpoint with your breath hot and unsteady against my ear. The air is so cold, God, the stars are bright, and under the blanket we're burning, we're melting together...

"Please," I say - it's so hard to talk, to form the words, to move air through my body in the right way - "Please - a little more - "

Beneath me your body shifts, leaning back further into the couch; the angle and our rythym change slightly. It's enough. I tense and for a moment everything stops; my breathing, our bodies, the smoke and the stars above us.

Then I'm coming in long slow waves, coming and rocking in your lap and laughing a little at the crazy pleasure of it.

A few seconds later and you join me; almost soundless shuddering, biting down where my throat meets my shoulder. It doesn't hurt. Everything is dim and hazed, starlight shining through woodsmoke, the perfect night.

We hold each other, and breathe, and watch the smoke rising to heaven.

No escape from SUGASM #104

2007-11-06T20:23:00.000-06:00

Sugasm #104

Bondage tape courtesy of Catalina loves her collar.

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 #105? 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.

Editor's Note: I thought it was Monday all day today. By the time I realized it wasn't the new Sugasm had been up for a few hours. I'm just leaving it. The #105 post request will go up on Tuesday like normal.

This Week's Picks

Awkward Sex Attempts (and Other Common Experiences)

"This put a slight damper on the "sexy" feelings I was trying to work up."

Do You Want Me To Call You A Whore?

"Who doesn't like having their hair pulled during sex?"

Two Fer

"Neither of us heard the front door open when Jason's roommate came home."

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Girls and Guns

Editor's Choice

Being a Feminist in the sex industry

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Go Ahead. Label Me

Oldie But Goodie - Altoids And Blow Jobs

Short and Sexy?

Why Doesn't My Wife Want to Have Sex with Me Anymore?

Why I HATE the Term "Cuckold"

BDSM & Fetish

Always Your Slut Part 2

Angela-la Cake - Bloggers getting sweaty

Different

Fucking machines

Story: The Perils of Drink

Straight Boy Gets Fucked in the Ass

Unmasking

Who Doesn't Dream About She Males?

Sex News & Reviews

Kumi Is A Yummy Fetish Model

NEW Bold & Sassy Designs!

NSFW Pics & Videos

Angelina Crow - Peep Show

Annette Schwarz (updated)

Catalina loves HNT (Bondage Tape)

Exotic Bloom

If I had a clone...

Merry Samhain!

More Naked Lazer Bunny Hotties

Erotic Writing and Experiences

All About the Tricks

Ancient and Debauched

Backdoor Love

Cream for my Coffee?

The dangers of blogging

First Encounter

The first time: Having sex with my wife.

I dreamed of Margene

New Beginning

Sex Report: Poolside Follies

The six days of halloween

"Smokin Ass" or Halloween Remembered

Touching

Bonbon

2007-11-02T21:05:00.000-05:00

New territory for me, gentle readers. Enjoy!

Bonbon

Delicate cream-colored demibra that lets my nipples peek through the lace trim? $22.

Adorably soft, fuzzy, rose-and-cream striped socks that come up to midthigh? $18.

Pink stripper heels, Mary Jane style with an ankle strap? $35.

Total expenditure on hair, nails, perfume, assorted gourmet goodies in the fridge next to an appropriate bottle of vino, and the extra super special birthday present for my lover, maybe...$200 all told? What can I say, I got a raise.

The look on his face when he comes home to find me in his favorite chair? A vision of pink and ivory framed by dark leather, legs draped shamelessly over the armrests, both hands wrapped around the shaft of the silicone cock rising from the crimson velvet harness around my hips...

Absofuckinglutely priceless.

"Hi, honey," I say in a breathy, disconnected voice. He stares intently at my hands, watching as I stroke the toy, using motions and rhythm that I normally use on him. "Sorry I couldn't wait but the vibrator in this thing is - just - uhmmm..."

Writhing in the chair, grinding my soaking wet self against the buzzing toy, gasping and whining and letting him watch me come.

Afterwards, I run my fingertip along the bottom of the shaft and smile at him.

"Gonna join me, pretty boy?" I ask teasingly, and he flushes. Good.

"You...Jesus." His incoherence makes me giggle; so rare to catch him off balance like this, usually it's me stammering and blushing. "What gave you the idea to - "

"Come over here, sugar...c'mon." It takes him a moment to leave the doorway. Then he's all over me, sucking at my mouth with fierce kisses, stroking my shoulders, seeking out my nipples to twist and tug at through the soft lace.

My hands, I dimly remember through the haze that I need to be using my hands... one goes into his hair, holding on, pulling him down into the demanding kiss; taking it over. With the other I take one of his hands and press downward until our fingers wrap around "my" cock, my hand over his. I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I've got him. Caressing, hesitant at first, then sliding and tugging, rocking the base of the toy against my clit. I bite his bottom lip, just a tease, then lean my head back to look at him.

"Uhmm...so good.." I tell him, encouraging. "Look down. Look what you're doing to me..."

He does. His eyes are so wide, dark and dazed, full of sex; rocking my hips a little with the pressure of his touch, becoming more insistent. My forehead rests against his; watching him watch himself feels even better than the vibration. I run my fingers through his dark hair, catching soft curls between, stroking him reassuringly as he strokes me in an entirely different way.

"Kiss it for me..." I ask. Breathy soft voice, pleading for it, and gentle but insistent pressure on the nape of his neck. Oh, the beautiful shudder that goes through that body - so much bigger and stronger than my own; how many times has he pinned me helpless in our own bed, making me beg, taking me at his leisure. A man's control, physical, rough.

The way I like it.

Now I've barely touched him and still he trembles, breath unsteady. And he sinks to his knees for me, with unthinking grace. I lift my hips a little and his strong hands slide beneath me, cradling my ass, the harness soft between our skin.

"You are so beautiful like this," he tells me.

"So are you," I murmur back, and reach down. One hand in his hair, the other around the base of the toy, holding it steady. Offering it.

"C'mon, pretty...lover..." I coax. Dripping wet under the fabric. "Suck my cock."

The 'flesh' of the toy is firm but not unyielding - I went through four or five condoms earlier in the day, testing it. I can say with absolute assurance that it is neither too thick nor too long and that it feels good in the mouth. And other places. He can do this...if he wants to.

He looks so vulnerable. I would never have expected this to look good on him, but it does. Wild eyes, lost eyes, his chest rising and falling with each shivering breath. Still in his work clothes. Why does that make it hotter? The eyes close as he leans forward, touches his mouth to the toy's sculpted head in the softest of kisses.

I moan my encouragement and it isn't fake, though of course there's no physical sensation. My left hand is still in his hair, cradling his skull, and suddenly I understand the impulse to press, to bury this jutting piece of silicone in his mouth. This must be the most perverse thing I've ever done and it is fantastic.

My other hand wriggles the toy a little, rubbing it against his lips. "Suck it," I whisper - loud in the silent room - and give a tiny bit of pressure against the back of his head. Now he's trembling. I can see the outline of his cock through his work pants, bigger than the toy, fatter. Ready. But that's for later.

Now, all I want is what I'm seeing...his mouth opening for me, letting me in, taking almost half the length of the toy in one slow slide. God.

I thought I was doing this for him. Something super kinky that he would remember forever. But it's driving me crazy, this hot shaking lust I've never felt before. I want to take him. To fuck him. I may actually be growling, can't tell. My hips rise a little, involuntarily, rocking...tiny little movements, ever so gentle, shaking with self-control. Fucking his mouth.

Talking - I don't know what I'm saying, encouragement, obscenity, telling him how perfect he is, how beautiful he looks. How good it feels, as if it were my own flesh and not a pricy sex boutique toy. Our moving together is grinding the base of the toy into me, tiny little movements driving me higher and higher, I drape one long stockinged leg over his shoulder and then he reaches up and I feel his fingertips searching along the velvet - finding a gap - pushing and sliding and then he has two thick fingers buried in my pussy, curling up towards my pubic bone to hit just the right spot. Sucking and pumping those fingers into me and I cannot fucking stand it one second longer, I pull him down to me and cry out blindly and when I hear the raw wet sound of him sucking hard, really taking it, I come... like something breaking deep in my belly, strong, making me scream. Making liquid pour from me, escaping the harness, spilling over his hand and pooling in the leather chair seat.

That's never happened before, either. It's a night for firsts.

There is a long, long pause between the orgasm and the point where I know what's going on again. His head is resting on my thigh, my leg still curled over his shoulder.

"OK?" I ask, amazed at how shy I sound after what we've just done. When his eyes meet mine the look on his face is almost worshipful; I don't need any better answer. Still, he nods, and kisses my leg.

"Bedroom," he says after a second. "Now. I have to fuck you or I'm going to explode."

He helps me out of the chair - dropping his cotton undershirt into it to soak up the puddle, must've taken that off after I came - and we stumble towards the bedroom, arms around each other. I pat his hip reassuringly and smile.

I guess he doesn't realize. I'm not the one about to get fucked.

Unmasking

2007-10-31T19:45:00.000-05:00

A Halloween story for you all, beloveds. I'm almost at, what, nine hundred hits to this site? A thousand? Dear god.

Please enjoy, and have a wonderful holiday.

Unmasked

"It's time to get you ready," he tells me.

Halloween night. It's actually so close to our anniversary - the day I became His - we've taken to celebrating a few days early. He konws so many people, something is always planned...

This time, I know, the plans are different. I haven't gotten any explanations; only instructions. And as always with tasks he sets me, the promise of indescribable pleasure if I please him, of nameless, threatening "punishment" if I fail. Punishment that could never be felt more keenly than the shame of disappointing Him. That doesn't happen anymore. It won't happen this time, either.

Dressing me for the party takes almost an hour. The costume he'd chosen was elaborate, an Elizabethan confection in rose and gold. Padding in specific places - and lacing in others - swells my hips and breasts, shrinks my waist. The wig, glorious with ash blonde curls. Stockings and gloves, makeup and jewelry, a garter belt with cream lace and tiny pearls; adorable shoes with a low heel to help my balance and comfort under pounds of clothes.

His special touches lie under everything, of course, and they aren't contributing to my comfort at all.

Both ready at last - my Master darkly compelling, a caped swordsman in black and silver - we set out. His car is comfortable, but tonight, bound by my costume and stuffed at my core with the fitted plugs he'd given me... the first part of our anniversary present, cool thick metal filling my pussy and stretching my poor little ass, keeping my attention there as they slowly warm with my body heat...every bump in the road makes me shiver. Trying so hard not to writhe or beg, not to disappoint him. Tiny matching clamps hold my nipples erect, just barely loose enough to allow circulation; flat enough to be hidden by the clothes. Unless you know.

We enter the party together. A glittering mass of adults swirls around us, filling a golden stretch of ballroom rented by our hosts. Sparkling bejewelled webs descend from the chandeliers, carrying tiny onyx spiders. Shimmering champagne light gives everyone an etherial glow. Master holds my arm, solicitously guiding me through the throng, greeting friends, being sociable. I try. Hopefully anyone who notices my flush, my dark distracted eyes, thinks I've been at the cider early.

Suddenly we're waltzing, swept up in the dancefloor's gravity. I lean into His arms, try to concentrate on the steps, on following His lead. Trying with hopeless desperation to not come in the middle of the party, surrounded by all our friends. Each step, each turn pushes me closer, taking away all breath and reason; I can feel myself dripping onto my upper thighs...and as I tremble on the edge, Master leads me from the floor and helps me to a soft chair. Gratitude and frustration war within me and I can tell, by His smile, by the tone in His voice as He offers me a cool drink, that He knows.

He always knows. He revels in the knowing.

I sip my drink, lean back into the chair as well as I can in this costume. I've come to that wonderful place in my head that He always brings me to, where everything is soft as cotton and thought comes slow as honey. My presence here is for His pleasure, my secret torment for His amusement, my beauty His ornament. In this place, those things are not wrong or evil. They are beautiful, like forgiveness, like redemption.

For a while I drift in the sweet-thick haze of my submission; then, gradually, I realize someone is standing before me.

He is tall, more slender than Master, and all in red; crimson, carmine, deepest burgundy wine. The vest under his full-length cloak is embroidered with black in mesmerising swirls, and his gloves are black suede. They are soft when he takes my hand, presses a kiss to the palm, the contact sending a warm shiver through me, what they call a frisson. I blink up into his masked gaze and belatedly remember my instructions.

"He will be all in red," Master told me earlier, while he was dressing me for our outing. "He'll kiss your hand, and you will go with him."

Drink set aside, I rise, leaving my hand in his. Caught in that soft suede with the hand beneath it firm and unyeilding. Even the ostrich feather in his broad-brimmed hat is red. He leads me across the ballroom, to a series of curtained doorways at the far end, and before we pass through I've remembered where I know that costume from.

"A Poe fan," I ask him quietly as we slip through one of the heavy velvet curtains, "Or are you the Phantom tonight?"

"You decide," he murmurs into my ear. We continue. The curtain hides a dark hallway and he leads me onward, past several turns, and finally to a simple, unmarked door. It opens under his hand, but he does not compel, merely watching to see what I will do.

I hesitate...acutely aware of his presense, of the sensation of delicate femininity created by my costume; the perverse violation hidden beneath. Anything could happen behind that door.

"If he wants to have you," my Master had said, softly growling the words into my ear as he laced my corset, "Give yourself to him."

I bow my head, unable to look at his face even with the mask, and step through the door.

He follows and locks it behind us.

We're in a dressing room. Large, well-lit, with a vanity and a bench, one wall full of hanging costumes, wigs, shoe boxes stacked on the floor beneath. The Red Death removes his hat and sets it on the vanity, hangs up the massive crimson cloak. He is no longer seductive and mysterious. Now he is businesslike, brusque, the way Master can be brusque when he is giving me orders.

"We don't have long to change you," he says and turns me so that my back is to him. The wig is carefully taken away; then the outer garments, one by one, rapidly unbuttoned and slipped off. He takes no liberties and is very careful with the clothing.

In quick succession I am uncorseted, underskirts removed - I am particularly happy to be able to breathe deep again. The ex-Red Death moves with the speed of an expert, someone who has done this many times for many women. Soon I am naked, shivering in the cooler air of this unused room, and now he takes a moment, pays more attention. Smiling as his long, delicate fingers first trace the metal clips encircling my nipples - so plump and red now from the pressure - and then tug at them, making me whine.

"You are so lovely," he tells me; "We are both going to enjoy this very, very much. I promise you."

It starts again. He slides a panel aside in the wall, revealing a small washroom, and has me wash off the makeup Master so carefully applied earlier. Afterwards I take a moment, stare at myself in the mirror - my flushed unpainted face, eyes still wide and dark with arousal, wet eyelashes sticking together, water running down my neck and breasts. Red brings a towel and dries me, quick but careful, then leads me back into the dressing room, sets me before the vanity. On its surface lie a pair of exquisitely long black gloves, delicate leather straps around the wrists fastened with silver buckles. Beside the low bench, a pair of high boots, platforms, glossy black.

Red kneels before me. With gentle but insistent hands he presses my thighs apart. I am suddenly exposed to this man, my shame revealed. His thumb traces my labia, waxed smooth and dripping wet, and gently nudges the metal toy buried inside me, making me gasp. The sound pleases him, and he makes me repeat it several times, grasping the toy's base and ever so gently fucking me with it. Tilting it back so the front edge rubs against me inside.

Then it is sliding out of me, leaving me empty there, bereft; he pulls me forward and presses the blood-warm toy against my mouth. "Clean it," he says, and I do. I cannot stop trembling in his arms and I suckle at the toy pretending it is my Master's cock, that I can taste myself because He was fucking me. Comforting image, soothing, so different from being given to this stranger.

"Good girl," he murmurs as I suck. "Good slut. He was absolutely right about you. What a treasure."

And that is when I cry. Not sobbing, but softly, tears rolling down, the sheer emotion and tension and perversion of the moment overwhelming me. He wipes the tears away, he is very gentle with me.

"That's all right," he says, "I understand. But there's more to come. Breathe."

While I calm myself he is sliding my legs into the high boots; they fit as if they were made for me, reaching all the way up my thighs, almost to my hips. High platforms; he will have to help me stand. The gloves are next, soft and smooth, up to the shoulder; then he smooths back my hair into its little wig-friendly bun, finds a large complicated makeup box beneath the vanity, paints my face. His touch is extremely delicate, professional. "It won't matter if you cry," he tells me as he works, "these are designed not to run. But save your tears for a while. There will be time later."

Another wig; this one red; port red, almost matching his cloak. Pinned and spirit-gummed into place very securely. I wonder what he's going to do with me, that the wig must be so secure.

He helps me stand, turns me toward the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

This can't possibly be me.

I look...alien. Inhuman. Extraordinarily tall; in the boots I am as tall as he is. His artifice with the makeup has given me almond eyes, smoky eyes, practically Asian; changed my brow line, the depth of shadow beneath my jaw.

"Perfect..." he whispers into my ear; "Almost perfect."

He opens a small case, bids me open my eyes wide, and places a colored contact lens in each. Now I am a redhead with eyes the color of malachite, rich dark green.

From another pocket or pouch, two tiny silver bells. I flush; one final indignity, one more shame, one more ornament taking me from a strong, autonomous woman to this...object, this exotic gracile sex toy.

The bells attach easily to small loops on my nipple jewelry. The chime as I move is soft, but audible.

And as always, I find that I am wrong. There is always one more thing He can do to me.

The collar is, at least, physically comfortable; suede-lined, like Red's gloves against my skin.

"There," he says, and kisses my forehead delicately. "Now, we go."

He opens the door...

*********************

There has never been, in all my life, anything like the overwhelming terror of stepping back through that curtain into the ballroom.

Three hundred people there that night? Four? All adults, yes, all prepared for the 'exotic' entertainments the hosts are wont to provide. This would not be the first time a naked woman would parade through one of these midnight galas. But now, it's different.

Now, it's me.

Red presses me forward gently when I balk, stopped dead just behind the curtain, feeling simultaneously frozen and melted, poised on a knife's edge. Covered toe to hip, fingertip to shoulder; expertly disguised; my identity more hidden now than it was when I walked in with my Master less than two hours ago. And yet. Cool air raises gooseflesh on my exposed skin, tightens my nipples in their silver clips; the bells ringing with every shallow, unsatisfying gasp for breath. I feel my eyes are huge, and sweat is rising on the back of my neck.

Hopelessly I look to Red for escape. There is none.

There is only his gloved hand at my throat, the other resting on the curve of my hip; only his soft mouth brushing my ear as he murmurs to me.

"Let it go. You have no idea how beautiful it will be, how proud he will be of you. Let go your pride, your fear. Be what you are."

He nips at my earlobe once.

"Be His."

The curtain is swept aside and, before I can think, dazzled by the lights, Red leads me out onto the floor.

******************

Something breaks inside me when I walk out into the light; some wall of ice, shattering like Spring come early. The warmth flooding me afterward is like nothing I have ever felt before. It is as strong as the terror was, stronger; but I could bask in this feeling forever, I could lose myself in it.

From around me, there are gasps, murmurs, a low appreciative whistle. Slowly, applause begins and grows, bouncing off my skin as Red leads me through the crowd.

As the people back away to give us space, Red brings me to a low stage, a dais near the center of the front wall. Framed prettily between fluted columns. We climb three steps up and I am turned to face the crowd, who erupt in applause once again; and as I look out at them from my height, hidden and revealed, I see my Master.

I am beside him.

...No, obviously, not me. Another woman, roughly my size, in my costume, peering at me over the edge of the delicate ivory fan I carried when we entered the party. Mine, or near enough. With the mask and the wig and the paint and the clothes, no one could really tell who was underneath.

I stare, and while I am so distracted, Red lifts my wrists above my head. There is a clicking, and when he steps away...I am bound. The delicate-looking straps around my wrists, what I had thought a decorative touch to the long gloves, hold me securely.

The swelling warmth overwhelms me and for a moment I sway, dizzy. Red slips an arm around me from behind; the crowd sees him fondle me possessively, his gloved hand sliding down my stomach to curl between my legs, but he is allowing me to lean against him, murmuring encouragement into my ear. I breathe slow and deep, soaking in his warmth, feeling those sueded fingers find and caress my swollen clit.

He holds me, supports me, tells me how lovely and perfect I am, how everyone in the crowd wants me; kisses my throat, and brings me to a sudden, bucking, moaning climax there in the center of the room, spotlit, truly naked at last.

I hang exhausted in my chains and he steps away. Sound is distant and unclear, rising and falling like ocean waves; I concentrate on catching my breath, my balance, regaining composure in the face of all these glittering people...

And then, when I can finally hear and think again, the ominous, unmistakeable hiss of a cane. I meet my Master's eyes, shocked, and then the slender rod meets my flesh and I am awash in fire.

My hands clenched around the chains binding me, I close my eyes, grit my teeth, wait for the next one. Feet apart, back arched, every muscle taut, I know it's coming, I can't possibly stand it, and there is the hiss again, it's coming...

This has been done to me before. Master has quite the collection of striking implements, whips, paddles; there is no real danger...and I know that there is bliss in this pain, I know that it will come. Regardless, by the third strike I am sobbing like a child, and by the fifth I am screaming. The crowd is silent; my ragged cries echo through the enormous room.

After a while, the blows stop; I hear voices near the edge of the podium, footsteps; and then my Master is before me. He cups my chin in one hand, raises my face; looks at me as though I were a stranger. But deep in his eyes I can see the approval, the love and lust that are for me alone, and everything is all right.

He steps back from me; in his hand is a thin rod, flexible. I have felt this before, too.

The blows begin to fall and under this barrage, no matter how I try, there is no standing still. The cane leaves deeper marks that last for days, bruising, and can damage if the wielder doesn't understand what they're doing; the rod is kinder in the long run, and safer, but oh God, it stings. He avoids the previous caning marks, at least; there is that mercy. But when he is done - minutes? Hours later? Thin red welts rise on my ass, my hips, across my breasts. He seemed to particularly enjoy the music of the bells when the rod shook them.

I hang in my chains, conscious, but so deep in that emotional haze, I may as well have fainted. Master may continue hitting me, if he likes, I think dazedly. Master may fuck me, or give me to Red, or to the entire crowd, just let this go on...

His hand, my Master's comforting hand, is curled around the back of my neck, holding me close. "I love you," he whispers, and I lean my head against his shoulder and cry. He allows me that luxury for a moment before stepping away again.

"Shall I cool her off?" I hear him ask the crowd; they erupt in cheers. Red curls his fingers through the wig, his other hand under my chin, tilting my head up and back; "Enjoy the champagne," he whispers to me, and then I am showered in cold. The liquid strikes me with force, spraying over my nakedness, splattering on my whipped flesh; champagne right out of the bottle, chill and stinging, covering me, making me howl and writhe. Red holds me still until it is over. Liquid runs from my body in streams, soaking the boots, puddling between my legs on the stage floor.

Master cups his hand between my thighs, palm against my mound, two fingers sliding easily into my wet, exquisitely swollen pussy; I rock my hips into the caress as he works me, and again I am brought to a shuddering, gasping climax before the crowd.

He slides those fingers into my mouth, makes me suck them clean; then he captures me, kissing deep and rough. Red is behind me, reaching up to untie my hands; he bends his head and bites at the side of my throat, cupping his still-gloved hands around my breasts to play with the clamps on my poor, tormented nipples. Trapped between then, I beg softly to be fucked... here in front of everyone, I don't care, just please, I can't stand it any longer...

"Right here," Master promises me, and pushes me back into Red's arms.

And I realize, as I am lowered onto the slick stage floor with this stranger in red between my thighs, that he means it.

Sugasm 103, or OMGWTF I MADE THE LIST!

2007-10-31T19:03:00.001-05:00

Sugasm #103

Extreme Restraints courtesy of Essin’ Em.

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 #104? 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

Urgent

“Feel the electricity from my fingers as I peel the damp cotton of your panties away from your sex, as I ease them to one side.”

The Man From Del Monte Says…Yes, Yes, Oh God! YESSS!

“She let her lips and tongue explore me all over.”

Traveling the road, Sharing a load, Side by side

â€œI guess this is not very sexy, my ranting about politics while playing with your cock.â€

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book

Editor's Choice

Dinner Date: Part 1

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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.)

Sex Poetry

It’s about priorities…

Orgasm - O-Vision

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Fantasy Football

Halloween…

In Need - Original Illustrated Erotica

Indian Summer

New Underpants

The Pied Piper

Tight

Touch Me Babe

A walk in the Woods

Sex & Politics

Love Your Body

Abstinence Only Sex Ed On the Ropes?

NSFW Pics & Videos

Emilia

Happy HNT!

HNT the Menstrual Edition

I Feel Myself

Sinful Invitation

Sugar and Spice

Sex News & Reviews

2257 No More? Let the amateur porn flow!

Asian Woman Bound, Tickled and Forced To Cum

DamNation w/ The Reverend Bob Levy

NEW Super Sexy Designs!

Sex Toy Review : Under the Bed Restraints

Welcome to “Birds are smart” by Penny

BDSM & Fetish

Anal Training Part 2 -The Entering

Anniversary Present: A Fantasy

Cyber or real!?

Disobedience

Don't stop until I stop you

Face Slapping II

Flying

Hand Signals

L is for Look it Up

The Petting Zoo: Sex Camp, Day Two

Princess or Pervert?

Stiletto Mistress

Sex Work

Reality Check: Getting Sick

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

The Disclosure Dilemma

HNT - Half Naked Thighs

I Want to Fuck All of My Friends

A Prelude to an Eclectic Slut

Some Things Are Not Possible

Why was the sex so good?

Why We Aren’t Really Swingers (part 1)

Meta: Bi-Indifferent

2007-10-29T23:41:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder about the concept of sexual orientation. In general, and my own, specifically. Well - really I think it's a very subjective thing, and affects each person in a different way. I'm not saying that my feelings about gender and orientation are going to be relevant for anyone else, that it works this way for everyone.

Thinking about being with another woman...well, women are beautiful. Women are graceful, lovely, smooth and soft, each curve and angle so unique and so compelling. Tiny, delicate, elfin women; big lush gorgeous women; every variation, every style of dress, a thousand different skin colors, a million haircolors and styles. The warm scent of skin and perfume. I imagine the way a woman would kiss, how it would feel to lie with another, bodies twined, losing myself in the indescribable pleasure of that feeling.

But it's all nerve endings, yes? The physical sensation of being touched, of playing with another person. The emotional connection of lovemaking.

There's something different about men.

For one thing, it's not so visual. While I find many men attractive - and a woman certanly doesn't have to be a supermodel or even 'conventionally' pretty for me to find them attractive - the reaction I have to men, in a sexual way, is very different. Visceral. An emotion or a feeling that goes beyond an admiration of form or an imagining of pleasure.

I suppose it's all bound up with being submissive. That may explain the instant subconscious awareness of Man, the masculine aura, the way I feel their presense around me. They way that even just hanging out with a male friend, someone whose relationship with me is entirely platonic, will make me feel safe and warm and just...aware of them. This is a man, and he is possessed of a penis, and I catch myself daydreaming about fucking him, about how his kiss would feel, his hands on my lower back pulling me against him. Would he be rough with me, or gentle? Aggressive, or would I have to pursue him, pulling off each piece of clothing with intent? Things that would never actually happen. Sometimes I have to concentrate not to think about it.

When I am with a man sexually...it's like being on fire. Like I'm a hard drive set down a little too close to a powerful magnet. Everything is jumbled, confused; mental cohesion and moral self-control are broken up like ice floes in spring by the hot rush of lustshamedesiresubmission.

And the voices, of course. God, I'm a sucker for a man's voice. Voices with character, deep and rough, or melodic, accented, educated and precise...everything. Donald Sutherland. Tim Curry. Ron Perlman, Tommy Lee Jones, Laurence Fishburne...

Yeah.

I don't have the same reaction to women. Even the thought of being topped by a woman is different. Not unpleasant. I'm sure it would be extremely enjoyable. But there isn't that...id-reaction, that other-mind. It would be fun, pleasurable, beautiful even. But not the same.

Thus, I'm not certain if I'm bi-sexual, or not. If the designation even matters.
I'm just...versatile.

An Office Story

2007-10-25T22:51:00.000-05:00

Ever dreamed you were naked at work?

I'm a normal person. I work in an office and live in an apartment. Not married, nothing serious - a few ongoing, semi-casual 'friends'. I pay my taxes and recycle. And I dream.

It's been going on for a year now - once or twice every month, if I've been up late or worked extra hard that day. When I'm alone and exhausted and curling up in my warm bed feels particularly blissful. I sink into soft dark waters and then, out of that haze...I walk into work.

The glass doors swing open for me and I feel the lobby's soft grey carpet under my bare feet. Air conditioning, always just a smidge too cold, raises goosebumps on my skin and my nipples crinkle up, hard and pointed. The long braid of my hair swings back and forth as I walk, brushing my back, and I glimpse myself in the mirrorlike black marble wall. Completely bare, head to toe, briefcase in hand; an incredible swell of embarrasment and excitement and confusion fills me, but somehow I am still walking, moving along as if everything is normal. Headed for the elevators.

Even more strangely, no one else seems to notice my conspicuous nudity. I'm passed by men and women in expensive suits, brown courier uniforms, three young people from the cleaning staff in their incongruous jeans and t-shirts and Ipods. Some nod politely, some completely ignore me, intent on their destinations; but no one stares, no one cries out or laughs or whistles. Security doesn't descend upon me with their two-way radios and their overbearing self-importance, Defending America from the Naked Terrorist Menace.

Soft music is playing in the elevator during my ride to the seventh floor. People are always there with me, but they change from dream to dream, and they never notice that the woman next to them is missing her wardrobe.

I go to my office and sit down - the fabric soft against my ass and back, edge of the desk cold on my stomach when I roll forward.

At first I would wake up when I turned on the computer, the click-hum of its internals powering up always bringing me around.

After a while, though, the dream began changing. Getting longer - though when I woke the bedside clock always showed about the same time. Inside the dream I would actually work for a while (this part always passed in a blur, thankfully), get up for coffee, carry stacks of reports cradled against my naked stomach to my boss' office, talking to co-workers about inconsequential things. NO one ever reacted to my state.

It went on this way for almost four months, and then...well, things in the dream got really different.

For one thing, it was raining outside When I stepped through the lobby doors I was naked and drenched. Rainwater beaded on my breasts, streamed from the tip of my braid and dripped from the curls between my legs. I passed my boss' secretary and she smiled, teased me about forgetting my umbrella.

Waiting for the elevator took forever while I shivered in the cold, watching my reflection in the wall. When the doors slid open at last I scurried inside, eager to get up to my office where I could find some paper towels, maybe steal someone else's raincoat, anything to get warm -

And then I stopped, shocked. There was one other person on the elevator with me, a guy I recognized but didn't really know, Keith from Accounting down the hall. And he was staring at me.

He was naked, too.

We were up two floors before either of us could speak or move; then we flushed and turned our gazes aside simultaneously. I cleared my throat; he hit the Elevator Stop button.

"Uh - Which one of us is dreaming this?" he asked.

"Well, I thought I was," I say. With difficulty. Trying not to throw little glances at him or notice his glances at me. Now that someone could see me, see ALL of me, I was red with embarrasment, not sure where to put my hands.

He coughed again; at least I wasn't the only embarrased one. Then he fell silent, and looked at me. Really looked. I crossed my arms over my stomach - not really hiding anything, but it gave me a little comfort - and after a second I looked back.

Not bad. He's a little taller than I am, slender, rich brown curls with a dusting of silver. Nice eyes, also brown, warm. Not ripped, but in shape, with a nice cock, reasonably thick with a mild upward curve, and then I realized that he was hard, and I was staring at his crotch. My blush turned one shade darker. At least the embarassment helped fight the chill.

"You're dripping," he says, a little bit of roughness in his voice, arousal. We're still trapped in the elevator, unmoving, banal music in the background, and suddenly I don't care. I don't care. It's a bizarre dream and if it's going to keep getting bizzare-er, I'm taking advantage of it.

"I'm freezing," I sighed, and leaned into him, pressing the length of my naked body against his; feeling the muscles in his stomach jump when I laid my hand against them. "You shouldn't have to be cold in a dream."

He made a sound, soft and wondering; then his hands were cupping the back of my head and my mouth was being devoured. Deep, slow kiss, opening to each other at once; he tasted of coffee and somewhere in the back of my mind I realized that this was going to be *fantastic*.

I moved into the embrace, pushing us backward until he was pressed against the side of the elevator, trapped between me and the wall. His cock throbbed against my stomach and I wriggled, sliding my slick, wet body against him; he groaned into my mouth and the sound went straight down my spine into my belly, like being hit by lightning. We caressed each other, his hands sliding down to my lower back, then up to my shoulderblades, grazing me just a little with fingernails, I loved that. Then down again, all the way down, cupping my ass with both hands and pulling me up onto my toes, while his mouth left mine to trace the line of my throat with eager, biting kisses.

"I've always wanted to fuck in one of these," I said into his ear, my voice breaking in the middle, and he laughed against my skin.

I softened my knees, letting him bear more and more of my weight until he got the idea and let me slide slowly to the floor, my knees cushioned by the plush carpeting. Perks of a multimillion dollar operation, good carpets. Idly I wondered if this was why, but then he was right in front of me, erect and glistening at the tip, and I was starving.

I looked up and gave him an innocent, angelic smile before pressing a gentle kiss right on the head of his cock, feeling his precum hot and wet against my lips; turning my head slightly from side to side, letting him watch it rubbing against my mouth. He gave an appreciative moan and I saw his hands press flat to the wall, hard, like he was trying to keep from reaching forward. Trying not to take hold of my head and force himself into me. The gentlemanly self-control earned him flicks of my tongue, soft little licks against that spot where head meets shaft, where so many men are extra sensitive.

I licked, I sucked gently without letting him in, tasting the salt warmth of him, and when I saw his hands spasming against the wall - like he was going to start digging his way through any second - I gave a soft laugh and opened my mouth around him, letting that thickness slide into me, deeper and deeper, until I had almost all of him.

I'd need a bit of warmup to really take it all, but we'd get there. He didn't seem to mind. I wrapped one hand, my left hand, around the base and let my thumb slide down to tease his sack, and my other hand slid down to where I was hot and wet, though not with rainwater anymore. My fingers slid easily around my clit, and my little moan around the thickness of his cock made him twitch in my mouth.

I give a good, wet blowjob and he certainly wasn't complaining. When he was nice and wet - all the way down past my hand, saliva beading in his curls - I pulled back almost entirely, suckling softly at the head, and met his gaze again. He looked very nice staring down at me through half-lidded eyes, biting his lower lip, pleading with me without words. I let my eyes smile into his and then I closed them, inhaled, let myself open, and pushed...feeling him slide...trembling for a moment, that second's discomfort that always happens now, and then I had him all, sheathed in my throat, my lips pressed against the base of him.

He growled...sexy. I love doing this. One hand came free of the elevator wall and touched the back of my head, not grabbing, just resting there. I slid back, pushed forward again, I could hear the lewd wet sounds I was making filling the elevator, feel my own slick juices beginning to run down the fingers stroking my clit. ..

"Oh...god. Stop. You have to stop." he said - gasped. I pulled back a little, looked up at him wickedly, took him down again.

He twisted my braid up in his hand and pulled, gentle but insistent. "If you want to get fucked," he said, "you have to stop right now. It's too good, I can't..."

Fine... I mean, there are other things he could do for me, but I really want...yeah. I let him slide out of my mouth, looking up the whole time, watching his eyes when the head of his cock came free and one strand of saliva trailed off my pouting lower lip, connecting us for a second before it broke. His eyes were so dark... feral with arousal, and he reached down and wiped my mouth off. So sweet. Such a gentleman.

Then he knelt down to the floor with me, pulled me into his arms and kissed me again - so wet and hungry, sliding against each other, biting.

I wondered if he could taste himself on my tongue, and that was it. No more playing. One hand pressed flat against his chest, the other curled around his bicep; push with one, twist just right with the other, and he hit the floor with a thud, flat on his back. His look of surprise made me grin, but it felt less like amusement, more a feral baring of teeth before the pounce.

I swung one leg over and crawled the length of him, holding the eye contact; letting my body just barely slide against his, teasing, until the head of his cock brushed, then nestled against my slick folds...throbbing hot and eager. My braid slipped down and draped over his shoulder.

"If we both remember this tomorrow, we'll have to do it again," I told him; his answer was to slide his hands up to the swell of my hips, take hold of me, press me back and down onto his cock.

Oh god it was so nice, so fat, splitting me, that wonderful stretching sliding sensation of being penetrated. My head fell to his chest and I whined, going with his hands, grinding my hips a little against his once he was in me to the hilt; felt, more than heard, the resonant growl of approval. Underneath me his whole body flexed, long lean muscles tightening, thrusting up with enough force to raise my knees from the floor before dropping back and doing it again, again...

"Fuuuuuuck..." one of us said. I honestly couldn't tell you which. With difficulty - fighting against the seductive haze that wanted me to collapse atop him and let him do all the work - I pressed myself up, hands on his shoulders, and began to rock; hips flexing, spine curving as I arched my back and rode in time with his thrust, working together to reach what we both wanted. The soft liquid sound of sex was all around us, the satiny hiss of warm, moist skin rubbing against skin.

One broad hand curled around the back of my neck, pulling me close, and he whispered "Kneel up...let me watch.." into the cup of my ear. I complied without thinking and reached back to steady myself, hands on his upper thighs, spread and exposed before him from my flushed and passionate face to the wet, open pussy he was buried inside. He groaned at the sight; I answered, helplessly, when the new angle pulled back on his length inside me, pressing against me, the swollen head of him rubbing hard against my g-spot with every stroke.

No stopping it now, I had to have it, the sweet pressure inside me was demanding in a loud and strident voice that I come, had to come now, so fucking close to it... and then he levered himself up on both hands, sitting up so our stomachs pressed together; his mouth closed over my left breast, nipping and suckling at me, and at the same time he moved one hand down between us and ground the swollen nub of my clit under his thumb.

I think I screamed; I think that's what woke me. I'll never be sure. The orgasm was so strong, the best come I've ever had - felt like it lasted for minutes, leaving me drenched and dazed and shuddering in my own bed, alone. Touching myself in my sleep. I kept going, dragging out the last little bit of pleasure, until it was too much to bear and I had to lie still.

******************

There isn't much more to tell, really.

A day or two later, at work 'for real', I passed him in the hall. He smiled...just a normal, professional, "good morning stranger" smile. And we walked away.

I wonder if he saw my blush, if he wondered why...

Maybe one of these days I'll ask him out for a coffee.

And the dreams? Once or twice a month, when I'm particularly tired, stressed, when falling into bed feels better than anything else and falling asleep is quick and easy, like slipping under warm water... then the dream comes back.

Every time, there's something new...someone new. Wonderfully dom executives from the upper floors whom I've never even seen outside of news broadcasts - they have their own elevator, and their offices are like hotel suites. Let me tell you, there's nothing like being pressed naked against the chill (almost unbreakable) glass of a 12th-story executive suite and licked to multiple howling climaxes by a woman with perfect hair and multiple Ivy League degrees, a woman who could buy or sell you.

The IT boys...the filthy, filthy techies. Utter degenerates. What fun!

So many different people, so many different places. I walk through the building during the day and smile to myself; surrounded by special memories.

I don't know why it happens. But I don't want it to stop.

Sugasm #102

2007-10-24T19:37:00.000-05:00

Sugasm #102

Janette courtesy of Badgirl’s Hotbox.

The best of this week'ss blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #103? 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

She Told Me

“She told me she had a headache.”

Fantasy: If you can't stand the heat…

“You set the ice cube down and force my legs apart.”

Sugarbutch Star: Bad Bad Girl

“I brought my lips down on hers hard, crushing, devouring, insistent.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Upskirt Video from V Magazine

Editor's Choice

Blog Action Day: Sexual Activism or Lightning Doesn't Strike Twice

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

My Wife is a Skank! pt2

Peep Show

The piss slit

Significance of a Collar

Under his Thumb

Sex News & Reviews

Featured Design: Go Ahead and Ask Me

My first speculum

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Capture

Faking It

Geriatric SEX! yeah. Part 2 of an interview with mimi about her (relatively) new relationship

Rant to follow!

Tantra and Kink: Energy Charge

The Grey Area

TMI Tuesday #105 (Dating Edition)

Top Ten Songs to Do It To

What To Do With Cum (Part 2)

Sex Work

Comfort Sex

Cuckold Fantasies and the “N” Word

Sex Work And Religion: Crucifixion

NSFW Pics & Videos

Catalina Loves Bondage and Nikki Nefarious

Cerydwyn (I Shot Myself)

Erotic Art Show: Houdini

Janette - Morning Blue

Jungbauern Calendar 2008

Naughty Nurse

Ron Harris Studio’s Latest Erotic Photo and Video

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Auto-erotic

Behind glass

Christening

Encounter 1, Part II: Disaster Averted

Find ‘em, Fuck ‘em and Flee

Honey Iâ€™m home.

How I Love The Fall

I need you, now

My Afternoon with Alejandro

Rubbing one out

Ruf < cake > Smooth

Sacred & Profane

Sex Tourism

Vignettes of a Cuckoldress

Reconnecting

2007-10-21T09:08:00.000-05:00

The raise was great, but the long weeks alone were killing her. Lonely bored housewife was not a role she had ever wanted to play. The house had never been so clean, even the basement was organized, she'd tried baking, sewing, going to the library to lose herself in fiction, working in the garden. There were things to do and friends to see.

But at night, the bed was too big and their toys, her fingers, weren't enough. Even the times he'd call - his loving sexy voice saying the things she craved, telling her what to do, coaxing her through each climax or growling out his own - wonderful, but not the same, not enough.

She tried the cliche, sleeping in his tshirt; woke up crying at two in the morning, and took it off.

The first time he came home, she was waiting at the door and they didn't even make it to the bedroom, loving right there on the rug, so fervently they'd each sported bruises for several days afterward. Sore and happy.

This was the fourth time he'd been gone, fourth homecoming. She'd taken a long bath, almost unbearably hot soak, sugar body scrub leaving her polished, smooth. Took care of the details - manicure, pedicure, shaving her legs and, carefully, the soft fur between. Everything clean and perfumed and perfect.

Half an hour and a cup of warm tea later she fell fast asleep in their too-big bed and knew nothing until the touch of his hand brought her back. Tracing her cheekbone with a gentle finger, making her murmur sleepily and turn to seek his hand. Kisses in the hollow of his palm, the soft flesh of his inner wrist, his pulse against her mouth.

"Couldn't wait for me, could you, hon?" he asked, voice quiet and amused. Dark.

Oh, no. Her eyes flew open in the darkness, chagrined, sleepy-slow breath catching in her throat as a wave of anxious anticipation tightened muscles lower than her diaphragm, feeling her whole body flush. She was supposed to be awake when he got home, always. He'd made her promise. She'd never failed before.

Never had to be punished before.

"'m sorry - didn't mean to - " she half-whines against his hand, but his kiss cuts her off. Deep, demanding, taking her air and her voice and all her thought. He leans over her, half-climbing onto the bed beside her, his weight pressing her back into the pillows. Captive, for a moment.

Then he's gone. For a moment. She tries vainly to recapture her breath, eyes closed, waiting, and through the delicate film of her eyelids can tell when the bedroom light comes on. Bright; she opens her eyes and it's a moment or two before she can make anything out.

He's at the foot of the bed, still in suit and tie, five-o'clock shadowed, darkly handsome. Arms crossed, looking down at her, one cufflink reflecting the light overhead. "Get up and come here," he says.

Obeying or not is never in question. She slides out of the bed, comes to him, feeling almost bare in the cotton nightshirt that is all she sleeps in now; knowing that feeling will soon be worse. They stand together silently for a moment, just looking, and all his love and desire for her shows in his eyes; she could cry from the strength, the depth of it.

"I missed you," he says quietly, then: "undress now. I want you naked."

Cotton falls to the thick carpet without a sound. The bedroom air is cold compared to her own warmth under the covers and her nipples harden instantly. No words, but he looks at her, relearning her body, its curves and hollows, its subtle colors, the places where her paleness has flushed to rose with excitement. He walks around her, makes her lift her arms, cradles her head in his hands and tilts it from side to side, looking at her face from every angle.

"I was thinking on the plane," he says to her, quietly. "Being gone for so long and home so infrequently. It's like my life is there and you're my escape. Like you're my mistress instead of my wife."

Goosebumps raise on her arms and elsewhere.

"My sin," he whispers. "My illicit indulgence. My dirty little secret." His hands rest on her upper arms, palms slowly stroking from her shoulders down to her elbows and back. Every word, every touch makes her feel her nakedness more acutely, shamelessly bare next to his elegant couture, ivory skin next to black fabric. It makes her feel possessed, owned.

One broad hand moves between her legs, tracing her outer labia, feeling the smooth flesh and the slick wetness there, so much that it's coating the very tops of her inner thighs. She trembles in his arms, tries not to let the sounds building in her escape. Not yet.

"Sorry you disobeyed?" he askes, and she can hear the smile in his voice. She nods.

"Good girl. Climb onto the bed for me. Hands and knees."

God.. she obeys, but it's difficult. Harder with him clothed, knowing how very exposed she's about to be. He watches the whole time, touches her gently once she's there, guiding her knees apart...far apart...her shoulders down to the bed, until she lies with her breasts pressed into the mattress and her ass in the air, legs spread, completely open to him, without dignity. Her own moisture threatening to overflow. This is unbearable, humiliating, arousing. It couldn't possibly be worse.

"So pretty..." his hand gentle against the curve of her ass, trailing fingertips down her thighs. "So wanton, like this. My good, compliant girl...my good little toy. Touch yourself for me."

Helpless, she moans into the pillow, shivering. Every word is stroking the dark heat within her, taking her mind into this other place, where there is nothing between them but sex, nothing but his command and her compliance. One long-fingered hand explores between her spread thighs, stroking herself for his pleasure, first the outer and then inner lips, velvet soft, like petals; finding the moisture and drawing it up, smearing it in a trembling circle around her swollen clit. Knowing that he watches this, he can see everything she does to herself. The sensation is so strong, so keen, it makes her whine and pant, rubbing herself faster, the wet sound of her caresses filling the air.

"That's good, yes. Good girl. Slide your fingers into yourself...yes...very good. Now two. Fuck yourself for me. Show me what you do when we're on the phone."

She's writhing, drowning. Fucking herself at his request, then going back to her clit, feeling the tight urgency growing in her belly...getting closer. Her toes curl involuntarily, her soft moans turning gutteral, wanting, working towards it. Going to come for him, going to come so hard, any second now...

"If only you were good all the time..." he says, though she can barely focus on the words now, she's trembling on the edge..."I wouldn't have to do this."

Searing heat races through her and for a moment she thinks she's come, thinks this is the orgasm she was reaching for. Thinks the sound is incidental. Then it happens again, heat and pain and noise, and she realizes: he's spanking her. Stinging heat and humiliation make her cry out and try to pull away.

He climbs onto the bed next to her, puts one hand around the back of her neck. "Stay," he says, mock anger warring with genuine, rough lust in his voice. "I didn't say you could move and I didn't say you could stop. Play with that pussy. Show me how good you are."

Tears track her cheeks, spill onto the pillowcase; each burning slap pulls an involuntary cry from her, pained, excited. Her fingers stutter, then continue their caress, growing rough and eager; trying to drag the orgasm out of her flesh in time with each strike. "I'll stop when you come," he tells her and now his voice is almost unrecognizeable with heat. "You don't get fucked until you make yourself come. I know you can do it. I know you want to come for me." Punctuating his words with slaps, alternating the blows with caresses of her burning, reddened flesh. It's too much, an overdose of stimulation, her stomach clenching, free hand digging into the sheets below her, there's no way, she's going to hover on that edge until he gets tired and then he'll leave her there, he'll be disappointed, she won't be his good girl -

For a second she thinks she's lost it, that edge, it's gone for good, but she hasn't; she's fallen over.

He wraps his arms around her, murmurs praise into her ear, as she bucks and howls her way through the climax, clear liquid dripping down her wrist, pulse after pulse of it through her entire body until she collapses in a sodden heap next to him, gasping. So good, so good...

She barely notices him sliding from the bed and almost has her breath back when he returns, naked, turning her limp body over to lie sprawled on her back, breasts moving gently with each slow inhale. He cradles her, trails kisses along her throat and down to the peaks of her nipples, suckling and nibbling at each one until she groans and reaches up to stroke his hair. "More..." she sighs, and hears him laugh softly. "Please...it's been so long without you, I need you inside..."

He brings her legs up to either side, one arm under each, and presses the head of his cock against her slick opening. Sliding up and down, teasing both of them for a moment and lubricating himself; then there is the warm, welcome sensation of opening, of being filled. All the way inside, the belly-deep glow of pleasure she's been craving for weeks; she smiles up at him, childlike in her pleasure. "I love you."

"I love you," he whispers, and begins to fuck her. Gently at first, thoroughly, angling her body to rub against the top of her channel; glancing over the spot deep inside that feels so good, so different. His forehead rests in the place between her shoulder and throat, and his hot breath spills out across her collarbones; she cups one hand around the nape of his neck, caressing, welcoming him home.

"I'm going to make you pregnant tonight," he says in exactly the same tone, and the words pull a soft moan from her; she closes her eyes and begins to move with him, more urgently, feeling each thrust and how deep he goes inside, knowing that's where he'll be when he comes. Deep inside. That when she sleeps tonight she will be cradled in his arms, blissful with afterglow, and sticky-full of his seed. Full of his child.

That thought is all she needs; her hands grip at his sweaty flushed skin and she arches, gasping, coming in long slow waves on his cock, her hips jerking against him until he groans, growls, finishes, pumping into her, claiming her. Giving her what they both want.

They sleep that way, naked and tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin; and she dreams of their children.

Homecoming

2007-10-20T13:17:00.000-05:00

I hear the sink running; he's washing up. Me, I can't even think yet, let alone move. Everything's hazy and moist.

We weren't through the door two minutes - blessed warmth after the damp snowy January night - and he was on me. My coat forgotten on the floor.

Now I'm here, tumbled across the bed - tangled in all my clothes, pieces pushed aside or pulled halfway down in our breathless haste. I feel all liquid, swollen, bruised - bitten at the sides of my throat, my breasts, the curve of my belly...he loves to leave marks on me. Possessive. Between the initial pounce and this current state, this exhausted dishevelled pleasure, I only have sketches of memory. Vivid flashes. The way his mouth still tasted of red wine even hours after dinner. The rough rasp of stubble against tender flesh, the way he growled at my whimper and bit down into me. Two fingers pushing into my body, stretching me, making me try to writhe or buck and being totally hampered by the tangle of my clothing. Sobs of pleasure and frustration. Hearing my voice go all breathy, girlish, as it always does when we play, even when I don't want it to.

Being rolled onto my stomach, pillow under my hips, and taken, one of his hands clenched in my hair. God, that indescribable mind-altering burn - pinned and helpless, clothed and bared, moaning inelegantly when his cock finally pulses inside me, I know he's coming inside and that sets me off too and everything goes white...

And now, done, all that hot energy spent. He comes back from the bathroom with a warm damp cloth and leans over me, cleaning me. Solicitous. He rolls me again, onto my back, and for a moment our eyes meet. Suddenly there's a second of perfect clarity and understanding. I'm still too lost in afterglow to speak, but it's beautiful - he's beautiful, and I try to tell him so with my smile.

I think, for a moment there, he understands.

Then he looks down at my body arranged beneath him, and the demon is back in his eyes. He cups my breast in one broad hand, claiming it, gently toying with the nipple until I fidget and whine, trying to stop my breath from quickening. We both know it's futile.

"I like you this way," he says. "You look...used."

The blush is racing its way across my face, my upper body, and there's no way he didn't hear my breath catch. It is not fair for him to know me this well.

"Clothes half off, all out of breath, exposed, wet..." smiling in that particular way as he devestates me with words. "You look fucked."

My back arches, hips rising subtly and involuntarily, seeking; he's got me. Those fingers work their way down along my torso and discover my shameful secret, the soft folds of my pussy already oiled with my own excitement, slick and swollen and unbelievably ready. I still can't move, not really, but I writhe a little against him and feel the firm length of him against my thigh, hear him growl at the sensation.

"You want it again? Ask for it," he tells me, rough-voiced, while his fingers slide back and forth, slipping inside me, pulling out to spread liquid over my clit, stroking, teasing mercilessly. He knows how to touch, that a gentle caress with plenty of moisture and no pressure at all will make me crazy - will have me begging like a shameless whore...

"Please," I finally say, and he laughs at me. Playing with me.

"Fine," he says, "If you won't tell me what you want, I guess you don't want anything. I'll take what I want. You can just lie there..." leaning in close to my ear, taunting me, little flicks of his tongue against my earlobe as he talks. "...I'll get the lube, and you can watch me touch myself, watch me get myself off, maybe I'll come on your pretty naked helpless body...and then I'll clean you up...and we'll go to sleep."

"No - I want -" Deeply frustrating, its almost impossible to speak with the slow maddening caress between my legs, each stroke sending lines of fire down my inner thighs, down into the soles of my feet, almost painful, curling my toes, making me shake - "please please fuck me, please use me, please let me come, please, please I NEED..."

Babbling. Beyond any sense of pride or humiliation. Part of me knows he wouldn't leave me like this, but that part is in the rational brain, which is on hiatus at the moment. Later I'll be chagrined, maybe even aggravated at his ability to reduce me to this Id-creature.

Right now, though, I just want. I just need.

He provides.

There's a sudden disorienting movement, my body being shifted - I cry out with disappointment when his fingers leave me - but it's only the pants coming off, and then he's there. Slipping his arms under my knees, lifting and spreading me, tilting my pelvis just right, so exposed - his hot breath against my neck, I"m still whimpering broken pleas; then stretching, sliding, feeling myself opened around his cock, filled with heat an inch at a time, complete again. Steady movement, rythmic, graceful, like the tide coming in, the tension in us building, opening my eyes to find him looking down at me.

"Mine," he says, just a breath in the dark.

It doesn't take long for either of us, and he kisses me as he comes inside me again, as I cry out my own climax against his mouth. Perfect.

Sugarmoon

A post-Sugasm, personal story recommendation.

Too late at night to be posting SUGASM #137

Sharing some gorgeous art.

I inspired creativity! I'm pretty sure I get glamour for that.

Easy like...um, Tuesday evening: Sugasm #136

Nun porn courtesy of Catalina Says.

The Source of All Waters

What Sugar likes

SUGASM #133 ...is actually quite unexpected

Julia S. courtesy of Badgirls Hotbox.

The Secret Lives of Plants

Sneak Peek

Meta: Writespace

Who cares if it rains, we have SUGASM #123

Mz. Berlin courtesy of Corset & Collar.

Playing

Unabashed fangirling: Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab.

Research Pt. 3

Plague!

SUGASM #116 is made entirely of win

Justine Jolie courtesy of TGP.

Three

How I missed thee SUGASM #115

In Case Of Fire

Catharsis

Research, pt. 2

Ooh, multiple sugasms... SUGASM #109

Orchid courtesy of Erotic Garden.

Late late late for SUGASM #108

Sugasm #108

Research

Meta: Style

Sugasm #107

Tara courtesy of Tara Tainton.

Old Friends

Inevitable

j'adore SUGASM #106

Sanctum courtesy of Erotic Garden.

Dichotomy

*SQUEEEEEGASM* (aka Sugasm #105)

I Love Spiked Cocoa

No escape from SUGASM #104

Bondage tape courtesy of Catalina loves her collar.

Bonbon

Unmasking

Sugasm 103, or OMGWTF I MADE THE LIST!

Sugasm #103

Extreme Restraints courtesy of Essin’ Em.

Meta: Bi-Indifferent

An Office Story

Sugasm #102

Sugasm #102

Janette courtesy of Badgirl’s Hotbox.

Reconnecting

Homecoming

SQUEEEEEGASM (aka Sugasm #105)