Tuesday, April 30, 2013


~ erotica ~

His face was blank, cold. He worked quietly, except for the muted snap. He held the ribbon with one hand and lined up the medical staple gun with the other, making sure his aim was just so. He was creating art, cruel art, for his enjoyment.

This went on for what seemed like forever. Line up the ribbon, line up the staple gun, check his aim, and crack. Another piece of metal into my skin.

I tried not to move or make a sound. Tried not to meep or shriek. Tried to keep my breath from slipping into staccato. If I reacted, gave any indication, I knew two things would happen. One, he would be pleased that his torments were taking effect. And two, his treatment of my flesh would be worse. More art would adorn me. More pain inflicted. And his big flourish would be that much more to take in.

For it wasn't just the pattern he created that thrilled him. It wasn't just the zigzags or loops or whirls, the curves raised above my skin. No, it was the final pull, unzipping his zipper, that gave him his real thrill.

When he was finished with his work, he took a step back and admired his craft. A small, almost undetectable smirk, emerged on his face.

He set down the staple gun and slowly walked behind me. I felt his body next to mine. His crotch against ass. His chest against my shoulder blades. The musky smell of his cologne drifted into my nostrils.

Following the rules, I slid my arms behind him. Delicately gripped his ass. Lifted and exposed my chest. Propped up his art. Made my body ready for his fun. My head rested on his shoulder. I looked up at him for a few breaths before turning my head and closing my eyes.

He reached over my body and danced his fingertips along the pattern of metal. With every touch I had to keep myself from jumping. I could feel even the whisper of the air moving over my skin as his hands took in his work.

This was the most staples he'd ever put in me. And I knew there was only a few more breaths before the wave of pain and pleasure would arrive.


I inhaled. Gritted my teeth.


I felt him lift up on the ends of the ribbon, which he'd placed above each breast. The moment was about to happen.

But as he lifted, he didn't jerk. Didn't yank. Just lifted, pulled, harder and harder yes, but slowly. I felt my skin stretch as he raised me up, up. I felt my spine compress as I tried to rise with his hands. At a certain point, though, all I could do was hold still. Take in the sensation.


The first two staples at the ends of the ribbon released. I muffled a cry, but I knew he heard it anyway.

His hands remained high, pulling at the next pair of staples. Keeping my chest arched up towards the heavens.


The next two staples partially broke free of my skin. I felt the jerk of the ribbon on the next pair, and tried to quiet a shriek. I could feel the smile on his face, seeing me endure his torture.

He lifted the right side higher now. My chest contorted, trying to alleviate some of the pain.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Three more staples broke free. A tear for each slid down my cheeks. He bowed his head and lapped up the droplets.

The ribbon no longer crossed on itself, looking now like an angled number six.

"Fast or slow?"

He'd never given me a choice before. He'd never put this many staples in me before, either. Fifteen little pieces of metal in my body. Fifteen little glints reflecting the light he shone on my skin. Eight more still had to be released from my flesh. Now I would decide how that would happen.


Even in my pain, I couldn't pass up an opportunity to be just a little bratty.

"Hmm," he said. I heard the amusement in his utterance.

He relaxed his hold on the ribbon. I relaxed my chest back down.

He ran his left arm across my neck, lifting my head up. His right hand held one end of the ribbon.

He pulled.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Each staple released as he jerked at the ribbon, jerked at my skin. My body reacted without my will. Staccato breaths on each pull. New tears on my face. Muffled weeps with each shock of pain. And finally, on the last staple, he held it. And held it. Just at the threshold of release.

"Beg me."

"Please. Please. Please hurt me. Take it out of me. Relish in my pain."

There was a split second where his grip relaxed. And then his arm swung out hard and the staple flew out of my skin. I screamed my pain. Cried into his arm.

He melted his body against mine. I felt his hard cock against my ass. He rubbed his cheek against my face and sighed his pleasure.

Even as I cried, my pussy throbbed from the pain and ecstasy of his art.

Monday, April 29, 2013


Attention and affection; two simple concepts, yet it has taken me time and thoughtful introspection to realize they are the two major necessities I need in a relationship.

I want a partner who will spend time with me. Not around me, but with me. I need simple attention: a meal where we bitch about our respective jobs; watching a movie on NetFlix; going for a jog with me in the neighborhood; testing our duel trivia knowledges via Jeopardy! It doesn't need to be fancy, but give me the time.

I also want someone who shows affection towards me. Hugs and kisses, yes. But also holding hands. Back rubs. Gentle caresses. Playing with my hair (bonus points!). Cuddles. Snuggles.

Without attention and affection, I cannot be happy in a relationship.

There was a moment a week and a half ago. It was the Sunday after the Grue Pitt. Everyone was tired, exhausted really, winding down from the event. Gray, TwistedView, K2, and myself gathered in the living room to watch random action movies.

At one point, TwistedView and K2 snuggled on the LoveSac while Gray and I did the same on the couch. Gray lightly rubbed my back, my arm. We were watching either From Dusk Til Dawn or Game of Thrones. It was nothing big; just some down time to relax our brains and bodies.

And then, in a flash, it hit me: This is awesome. I want this. I should find someone for this back home.

Ding ding ding.

Because that's the thing: I live here and he lives there. Our lives are separated by hundreds of miles. When we are together, it's great, amazing really, but our lives make it so our time together is fleeting. Thems be the breaks.

I wanted to kick myself when the obvious hit me upside my head.

It was exactly what Doc has been talking about. Love, real love, isn't a series of highs and lows. It's steady. A baseline that's always there. Yes, it will have its moments, but the foundation lies in daily consistent care.

I yearn for attention and affection from someone regularly in my life. I want snuggles on the couch and cuddles in bed each night. I want someone to lean on, and to take care of, not just on special days, but every day.

I don't like that, when thinking about any as yet partner, thoughts veer towards my Ex. I don't like remembering snuggling with him on the couch or sleeping with him at night. I don't like that he is still a small part of my life (the occasional run in at work).

It is so tempting to go backwards, to try again. Not tempting enough, though, for me to do it. There were far too many things wrong with our relationship for me to go back to him. But tempting still.

It hurts, my current situation. Because I know I did have that bond with someone before. I know it's possible, making the not having it that much worse.

I do have attention and affection now, occasionally, on special days. When I get it, I feel this sense of ease. Of excitement, of course, but also of stillness. A knowing that yes, this is right. This is what I want, what I need. A gladness for my life in those days.

But I yearn for more than my special days, as cherished as they are to me. I yearn for constant love, daily care, dependable attention and affection.

As you might have guessed, since the Grue Pitt, I edited my OKC profile again. I'm trying to find a poly munch. I'm keeping my eyes and heart open. And I'm hoping.

Slowly, surely.

Saturday, April 27, 2013


~ erotica ~

"What are you looking for tonight?"

He sat in seiza, black kimono and matching pants perfectly pressed, arranged just so. His face was plain.

"Something different."

"I have rope. You have your body. From there where would you like to go?"


You could always find him in the same spot every Friday night, on his personal mat, under the same suspension frame, ready and willing to tie all comers.

"Hemp, jute, or MFP?"

No one knew which he liked more. If he even had a preference. He was aloof, mysterious.



"Um. Yes?"

I really didn't know what I wanted. Didn't know what to expect from him. Had no idea how my night would go. But I knew he intrigued me, so why not push a boundary.

"Are your clothes destroyable?"


"All of it, down to your shoes."


"Take off your shoes."

I'd seen him tie all types.

"What is your safeword?"


"Any play off limits? Any hot buttons?"

"Use safer sex supplies if the spirit so moves you. Otherwise, have at. I'm feeling very orange tonight."

Different bodies. Different genders. Levels of dynamic.

"Any health issues? Medications. Nagging pain. Stupid little things going on."

"Nope. I'm good."

Sometimes he was just the guy that took the pretty girl up and brought her back down.

"Last time you ate? Any alcohol?"

"Dinner about two hours ago, and no."

Sometimes he was sensual.

"Anyone I should talk to before we start? Any dynamics? Partners?"


"Nope. I'm single."

I loved to watch him play, however he played.

"Who do I contact if something goes wrong?"

"The DMs on duty are all my friends. They'll know what to do."

And, on the occasion, he was mean.

"Are you ready?"

Now those were the best.


"Good. Then we begin."

I don't know where the knife came from. Maybe the sleeve of his kimono. Maybe it was on the mat beside him but I just didn't see it. All I do know is that he sprung up, lightning fast, and was at my neck in an instant.

A hand in my hair. The blade against my skin. He traced the tip along my chin before gliding down. One quick flick. A small tear in my sundress. He released my hair. And then rip. My dress was spilt in two down the front. I wore no underwear. One more yank and the fabric was off of me. I was naked in a matter of seconds.

A knee to the back of my thigh had me on all fours on the mat. I heard the familiar soft thumps of a rope coil flung free. He wrenched my wrists from the mat. Tied them together by my lower back. Jerked up. Pulled on my hair. Attached the rope to my mane. Added in tension. More tension. Craned my neck back.

I looked up at him, nervous yet thrilled at what else he had in store.

He looked down on me, face still blank. Eyeing me as if he were puzzling something out.

He sunk down to his knees, his crotch inches from my face. Instinctively, I licked my lips.

"Do you require a condom for oral sex?"

"Not at all."

I eyed his crotch. The warmth from his slap lit up half my face. He grabbed my throat.


I parted my lips. He pulled his cock out from his pants. Stroked it with his free hand. Was already quite hard. Teased his head near my mouth. Stayed just out of reach of my tongue.

"Let me lick it. Suck it. Enjoy it. You'll love it when I blow you."

This time his cock smacked my face. Once. Twice. Then he slammed his cock into my mouth. I gagged. Then relaxed my throat. Used my tongue a little. Moaned from having him inside my mouth. He didn't move his cock, just kept it there until I almost lost my breath.

He stood up. Looked down on me. Cock still hard and out.

And then he pissed all over my face. Into my hair. I turned my eyes away.

"No longer so talkative?"

I looked up at him. Rage. Pure rage. And lust. Carnal full body lust. I wanted him even more.

"No words are necessary when you're having fun."

I spat at him. Sprayed his piss and my spit onto his kimono. He was down, hand on my throat again.

"You're fun. More fun than the rest."

"So I've been told. Thank you."

His lips met mine. We kissed, our tongues almost fighting in the playful way young lovers sometimes do. I never imagined he could kiss that well.

He sat back. Reached over my body. Untied his rope. Rested in seiza in front of me. I didn't know what to say, so I said thank you. He closed his eyes, nodded. Looked on me.

I was high, a rush of hormones from the scene. He was more fun than even I dared hope. I lept up and was about to bop off to the shower when he tilted his head up and asked a simple question.

"Next Friday?"

"I'd love to. See you then, Xavier."

Friday, April 26, 2013


"Your brain is unlike any I've seen before."

I laid on a table in the middle of a study, head tied down so I would not move. TwistedView loomed over me as Neuromancer sat by his computer, watching as the data came in. An EEG helmet rested against my skin, multiple points touching through my hair, reading my brainwaves all the while.

First TwistedView punched my chest. I took in the pain and pushed it back out through my breathing. Next he struck my chest with his cane. I used my shrieks and cries to take in and release his strikes. He repeated this pattern, punching first and then caning, my thighs.

For a few last readings, Neuromancer delicately stroked my right leg.

Once complete, I sat up and we chatted.

Neuromancer marveled at how my brain worked throughout the small scene. I never went away, always staying present in the moment. For him, when he was in throws of pain, he lost himself in the sensations. Other masochists he'd previously scanned lost themselves as well, floating away during their scenes. But my brain never stopped processing as I felt each blow inflicted upon me.

He asked me to talk about my experience of the scene. I explained that my masochism was rooted, at times, in almost a sense of service. The pain the person wanted to inflict on me I took in, processed, and expelled back out into the world through my breathing, my shrieks, my cries.

Yes, I still loved it. Loved the pain. Loved experiencing it, processing it, and seeing how far my body could be pushed. But I also loved the simple act of being the vessel for the sadist's torments, being that which the sadist used to fulfill their dark desire.

When I told my friends about Neuromancer's findings, my Big Bro summed it up best:

"Poetic, over thinking things? Who would've guessed?"


Thursday, April 25, 2013


Her tail hangs on the wall across from my bed. Her diadem lives in my bag of chainmail jewelry. Her boots, moccasin style, are occasionally worn without her preferred outfit: my black wrap dress.

She is one of my alter egos, a persona I love to don when I'm feeling sexy yet playful.

I sometimes think of myself as a vixen, with all that might entail. Sexy. Confident. Gleeful. And, of course, foxy.

She is older than my school girl, more wise and life lived. She is less humble, less demure than my school Gir sometimes can be.

I initially encountered her during my first summer at Ren Faire. Many people walked around the gravel encampment, most in personas that seemed appealing. Was I a bar wench? A lady of the court? A scoundrel or rapscallion? A pilferer?

As we circled around the fairgrounds, I came upon a store that sold, among other things, fox tails. At once I knew: one of those was mine.

I thought about a tail dyed red, but that didn't seem right, even if it was one of my favorite colors. No, I found a black one, felt it, and at once knew it would be mine. I bought it and attached it to my backside immediately.

When I wear my tail, I have a little more pep in my step. I swing my ass a little more. I feel more like a me I love.

I've worn my tail in times where I needed comfort. Or when I wanted to be silly. Or sexy. Or just cause.

I have many personas, all of which I love. But Vixen... She is one I am so glad I found. I will never let her go.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013


My head throbbed. Pain pulsed from the base of my neck up into my brain, out through my eyes, around my forehead, and at my temples.

It was a migraine, the first I'd had in years, and only the third in my life.

"I'm feeling nauseous" turned into "You need to drive" in a matter of seconds. I climbed into the passenger seat while Gray took the wheel.

Immediately, as soon as I buckled my seat belt, I began crying. The pain was too much. Too much now. Not now. Why now? The last few precious moments I had with Gray and all I could do was quietly weep.

He had me recline my chair, lie back, cover my eyes. He told me to eat his yogurt, but I didn't want to risk throwing it up.

My car was running low on gas. We had to stop.

"Do you want a receipt?"


I didn't care about gas or my credit card. All I wanted was to stop the pain. All I wanted was to not make him miss his plane. All I wanted was for these last few minutes with him to be about something other than my head. I hated my body for betraying me.

"I need something to concentrate on."

We started talking. We began a conversation about Game Of Thrones. He's read the books. I'm watching the television show and reading after. We caught two episodes the night before.

We discussed the characters, specifically my favorites who, if they die, I will stop watching. We talked about themes in the show. We talked about anything to make the time pass, to make myself forget about my head.

When I peeked from beneath my arm, I saw it. He was pulling into the airport. I had a new reason to cry. What little time I had had with him in my car was about taking care of me, not about enjoying the the moments with him.

He pulled in, grabbed his things from the back. I lurched out of my seat, stood by the front.

He stepped over. He opened his arms for a hug, and caught the corner of my mouth for a kiss. I turned my head and returned his affection. Kissing once. Twice. Thrice. Four times our lips met and parted. My head didn't hurt, my mind didn't wander from our moment, standing in the airport drop off lane, embracing a man I loved.

"I'll see you in a few weeks."
"Safe travels."

And he walked away.

I got into my car, my head throbbing a little less, and made my way home.

All while driving, through wrong turns, pit stops, and moments of sorrow, I thought about my Senpai, missing him already, until the day I'd see him again.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013


~ a story ~


It was the same as it had been between them for some time now. Short. Curt. Never outright rude, but not warm either. Like any other day. Except today wasn't any other day.

He saw it. Normally there was a moment, a split second of eye contact, and then returning to their respective worlds. But she didn't give that today. Didn't even hint a glance in his direction.

"What's wrong?"

She tried to hide her tears. Turned away from him. Threw her dishes into the washer. Made a dash out of the kitchen. He caught her arm as she attempted her escape.

"Bani, what's wrong?"
"Not today, okay? Not today. I can't talk to you today."

She wouldn't look at him.


She pushed him away. He let go of her arm.

And then he saw it. The bruise on her face. The tears in her eyes. She must have been crying for hours.

"Bani. Was it?"
"No, it wasn't him."
"Bani, you can."
"It wasn't him. It was his frat brother. He wanted a turn with the new hot piece of ass and when I screamed no he came across my face so hard I fell on the floor. He went for my skirt, but I kicked him in the balls and ran."
"I texted him. He called me a lying cunt and said we were through."
"You'll do what? Nothing. That's what you'll do."

Bani moved towards the hall.


He grabbed her arm again. She lashed out.

"You don't get to touch me. You don't get to stick up for me. When was the last time you said more than hey to me? A month? I started seeing Edger and you just dropped out. Where was my friend? Where were you Chris?"
"You had Edger."
"A frat boy who spent more time stoned than in class. Who cared more about my cunt than anything I had to say. Who half the time kicked me out of his bed after we fucked. Yeah, we were totally gonna last."
"Bani, I."
"You what? Didn't want to bother? Didn't care? Had no time for someone who's known you since we were eight. Someone who told you Cassie could go fuck herself for being so mean to you in fifth grade. Who helped you through Pre-Calc and Calc. Who is half the reason you even made it into this fucking school."
"You are the reason I'm here."
"What are you?"
"I came here, I applied to this college, because I knew you wanted to go here. Because I knew you would go here. Knew you loved the campus. Loved the Greek system. Loved the classes and the faculty and and and. You didn't shut up when you came back from your visit junior year. So I thought, if you were here, I had to be here. Because I don't want to be anywhere else. I didn't talk to you for the past month because I couldn't. Not knowing you'd just be running off to see Edgar that evening. Dragging yourself back home at god awful hours from the frat. The smell of him on you."

Now it was Chris who couldn't look at her.

"If you asked me to, I would find him. Both of them. Kick their asses. Maybe even kill them. Anything you asked of me, I couldn't stop myself from saying yes. From doing it. I love you Bani. Have loved you since forever. Will love you til forever."
"Chris, I."
"Don't talk. Not now. Not when I finally said it. Finally let it out. Just let me hold you and pretend it's third grade all over again and I'm guarding you from the scary dark place. Can we do that, not talk, just for a little bit?"

Bani nodded her head, stepped forward, and accepted his arms around her. She nestled her head into his chest and let herself quietly cry some more. And, if she had looked up, she'd have seen she wasn't the only person emotionally wrought that evening.

Monday, April 22, 2013


~ erotica ~

He had a curious grin on his face.

"Why are you smiling?"
"Because it's you. It's actually you."
"You did read the model release form, correct?"
"And my name was on the letterhead."
"Yeah, but. You don't think you'll actually meet the head of the company on your first audition."

Another one, fresh from the farm, looking for fame. How cute.

"First audition?"
"Yes Ma'am."

And he Ma'am-ed her.

"You do realize what kind of porn we make here?"
"You make all kinds of porn, Ma'am."
"Yes. What was your name?"
"Of course. Yes Samuel, we make all kinds of porn for almost every genre."
"Then this is where I want to be."
"Really. Why?"

He seemed taken aback by her question. But then he stopped, gave it a few breaths of thought, and spoke.

"Ma'am, I left home because no one there could understand me. I grew up in a very strict religious household in a very closed off town that had one way of thinking and being. And that way was not who I was. I realized that pretty early on and kept quiet about it. But then I couldn't take it anymore, so I decided to just leave. Packed a bag and came here."
"Why here?"
"You're the reason why I found my courage. I found your stuff, clips of your porn on the Internet, and for the first time I realized I wasn't alone. Other people wanted, if I may be so crude as to say, the same kinds of dirty nasty downright wrong sex I dreamed of since I first starting jacking off. The kind I thought only I loved. The kind I knew, if I ever told anyone in my town, would have me beat or worse. To learn I wasn't alone. To learn there were other people, lots of other people like me. Of course I had to come."

For the first time, she looked at him. Really looked at him.

He was a cookie cutter image of down home raised 100% American red meat. Just what her audience would eat up. But there was also a genuineness in his eyes. He meant every word he said. Everything out of his mouth rang true.

Standing there, naked in front of her, lights shining on his tanned skin, completely naked, cock out for the world to see, yet this boy was comfortable. Relaxed even. A light went on in her head. There was possibility in this boy.

Still, she needed proof.

"You listed Anything Goes as your preferred porn category. Do you really mean that?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Until I yell Red, I'll take it all."
"Well, we don't have to start out with that today. How about just a test shoot. Are you up for that?"
"Yes, Ma'am. I'd love to."
"Good. Andre!"

She yelled for her assistant. He hurried into the room, latte in hand.

"Thank you, my love."
"He's cute," said the tall gay man.
"Indeed. Andre, darling. Take off your clothes."
"Ms. Hunt, I."
"Andre, you've been good to me this past year, learning everything I've taught you quite quickly. Up until this moment, your performance has been excellent. Do not disappoint me now. Take off your clothes."

Andre took pride in his wardrobe, dressing to fit his status as Sandra Hunt's right hand. Well balanced colors. Polished shoes. Silk ties. Removing his clothes felt dirty, beneath him. What he didn't realize was that Sandra was about to reward him for his work.

"Yes, Ma'am."

There was a look in Samuel's eyes. His stare didn't leave Andre from the moment he walked into the room.

"Samuel, you are going to suck Andre's cock. He, as with all my employees, is regularly tested for STI's. You, by merely being here for this audition, have also been tested and come up clean. Are you comfortable sucking Andre's cock?"

And there it was. She saw it, plain as day. The way his eyes shot open. The lick of his lips, salivating over the idea of what was to happen next.

"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good. Andre?"
"Yes, Ms. Hunt?"
"Stand next to Samuel."

Sandra turned and pressed record on the small digital camera a top a tripod beside her.

"Let's see. Andre, will you need a chair?"
"No, Ms. Hunt."
"Samuel, will you need a pillow for your knees?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Samuel, will this be the first cock you've ever sucked?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good. Think of this as a lesson. One that will help you in your coming years."

Sandra glanced down at Samuel's cock. Whereas before it was barely at half staff, he was now standing a full attention.

"Samuel, first you'll want to stroke Andre's cock. Think of how you'd want your own cock touched, caressed. That's good. Now, don't forget the balls. Use both hands. Can you hear Andre, how his breathing's changed. That's what you want. That's how you know you're doing it right. You want to try to read to Andre's reactions. Listen to his body. His non-verbal cues. Also he may guide you with his hands. Andre."
"Yes. Yes, Ms. Hunt."
"Put your hand on Samuel's shoulder and push him down. Good Andre. Now Samuel. See how Andre's cock has grown a bit. He's becoming aroused. Do you like that, knowing it's you who's making this happen?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Are you ready to take him in your mouth?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Good. First, lick your lips. I imagine your mouth is already wet, salivating even, at the idea of Andre's cock in it. Start out with just licking the tip. Good. All around it. Now close your lips around the head. Be sure to cover your teeth with your lips. Now stroke his cock with your mouth. Up and down. Up and down. All along his shaft. How deep can you get him in your mouth? Can you take more of him? More? You feel Andre's fingers in your hair. He'll guide you. Glide you along his cock. Encourage his cock deeper into your throat. Do you like that? How Andre is using you. Making you take his cock. Making you take all of him. Fucking your face."

Sandra didn't know how far Samuel would go. Didn't know yet how far she could push him. But the thought of this fresh face, his fresh mouth, his cherry ass, and all the money she could make off of him made even the harden Sandra Hunt quiver at the thought.

Saturday, April 20, 2013


~ a story ~

"So, how is he paying for this ride: cash, grass, or ass?"
"The second option, actually."

I should not have been surprised. It was 4/20 after all. But it wasn't until he answered my off-the-cuff question that I remembered the date and the preferred way many folks celebrated it.

Still, the next few moments shocked me. I watched as Zane opened the baggie of weed. There wasn't much there, but he was only rolling one joint. York sat shot gun. I stayed quiet in the back.

As Zane packed the rolling paper, he and York were laughing and chatting. The ride back had been full of giggles from me, but now I was stunned silent.

When Zane finished, he used York's lighter to spark up the joint. He puff-puff-passed. York took a hit, then pivoted his body back towards me.

"You want some?"

While they were smoking, I thought about how I would answer this question. To be honest, I didn't know what I was going to say until I actually said it.

"Sure. Thanks."

I had to remind myself the point was to inhale. I mentally encouraged my lungs to suck in the smoke. There was this almost perfect moment when I puffed, puffed, and then held the air in my lungs. When I let the smoke escape, feeling way too cool for school in the amount of smoke that came out, a small mellow came over me. This was not like the weed I'd had many years ago in my less than fruitful times. I didn't giggle like mad or find everything hysterical. Instead I just sat, relaxed.

The weed came around two more times before the joint was done. The guys chatted. I sat back and just tried to remind myself they actually like me as a person, wanted me there in the car. Just be cool may have run through my mind a few times.

During my last taste of the weed, I puff-puff-relaxed. I looked at Zane. His eyes. His hair. His smile. I remembered the off-the-wall conversations we'd had. How I liked being around him. How whenever I saw him I smiled. How I wished I saw him more.

Hey, I like him. I think I want to fuck him. Maybe more than fuck him. Okay, high or not, don't say that out loud.

I didn't.

The joint finished, we all disbursed.

Zane and I both immediately went home. As Zane drove, I saw that his driving had changed. Zane loved to speed, so when he was going way under the speed limit I worried. I texted him.

You okay?

Yeah, I'm great.


While smoking, he mentioned how he can't speed when he's high. I proceeded to watch him in my rear view mirror. We were going in the same direction, so I made sure he was okay until my exit. I then texted him again, asking if he got home okay. He did.

Sitting in the back of Zane's car, smoking a joint and shooting the shit, was the most relaxed I've been in a long time. I was mellow, mostly carefree. The stress of my days melted away in the haze of smoke surrounding us.

I'm not saying I'm going to turn into a pothead. I don't have the money to afford it, nor do I have a hookup. But what I will say... Sometimes people just need to chill.

e[lust] #45


Photo courtesy of CreativNooky

Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #46? Start with the newly updated rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Bringing Toxic Sex Toy Facts Out of the Attic

How Do I Get My Wife to Dominate Me?

I Need This

~ Featured Posts (Molly’s Picks) ~

Speaking the unspeakable


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

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Easy Come Easy Go: A Look at Orgasm Control
I came before I was ready
Relationships and age difference
PolyAnna's Musings: Different is Good, Right?
Seriously Proud Queer
Spanking Kink of the Week
How to Be Good in Bed
A Thousand Small Unhappinesses
What's in a Number?
The Absence ofHow to Tell if a Man is Gay
Stop Shitting on the Bottoms

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

It's Not Misandry, You're a Douchebag


Catalyst: How it Inspired

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Caning: To count or not to count
Slavery and Social Death, by O. Patterson
His Eyes Hungry. His Body Pleads: Use Me!
Toilet Whore
And then, I apologized.

Erotic Fiction

Wicked Wednesday: A little bit of confusion
The Moment
Waxing Lyrical
The "L" word
Lolita Twenty-Thirteen, Part Three

Erotic Non Fiction

Girl on Girl
The Moment I Felt Owned
Tasting Her
Acting on Instructions
Final Cruise
A Lazy Sadistic Orgasm
I had 8 days of sex.
An hour together
Cheerful Disappointment
What is Erotic?
The Coin Flip
Playing with Adam
A Trip to the Hardware Store
Fall From Grace


A Somewhat Different Eroticon2013 4~part Post


The Dark Place


Friday, April 19, 2013


~ erotica ~

Our best fucks always happened after fights.

We'd start off screaming about something in the living room and soon find ourselves naked in the bedroom, though often we didn't get that far.

Occasionally we'd begin ripping each others clothes off while still in the middle of the argument. Those were fun.

Aggression was not our normal modus operandi. He was sweet, too sweet, when it came to sex. Gentle caresses along my flesh. Soft strokes of his cock in my cunt. Constantly checking in. Worried he might hurt me. Kind and considerate and boring as shit.

That is, until we really lit into each other. Or, more accurately, when I really lit into him. Then he didn't care. Pounded my pussy til I was sore. Pulled my hair. Bit and scratched and flung me this way or that. It was the best sex, the fucking I always wanted.

Towards the end, I started picking fights all the time. Made things up. Got on him about trash or dishes or bills, anything I could think of to get him angry and his mad cock inside me. Since I knew the end was coming, I wanted to be cuming as much as I could before we were done. I was going to miss his hate fucking.

It wasn't the fighting that ended us. It was his sweet manner.

He didn't take control. Didn't stand up for himself. Didn't make his needs known, unless I started yelling. He didn't tell me how much he hated his job. Hated the part of the city we lived in. Hated the ways I picked on him. Even hated my dog. Turns out he's allergic; never mentioned that before he moved in.

When he finally blew up at me, he told me all the things he should've been saying from the start. I wondered why he'd been my boyfriend in the first place.

And then we had our final fuck. Took me right there on the dining room table.

The thing that set him off: dinner. Pizza. White pizza with extra basil. He wasn't a fan of basil. Thought it too aromatic, over powering.

"Should've ordered it yourself," I said, flopping open the box. The savory smell filled my nostrils.

And then he was on me. First I was bent over the table. And then I was on the table, legs spread wide. He used the belt around my dress to drive my pussy onto his cock, fucking me with the ferocity I loved. He put his hand around my neck and growled while he took me. My hands circled his wrist, and I smiled and moaned while he ravaged me. I loved every minute of it.

When he came, he pulled my face down onto his cock and I swallow it all. Then he slumped over, panting, and finally said it.

"I hate fighting. I hate being this guy you want. I can't fight you anymore."

And he walked away.

Thursday, April 18, 2013


~ erotica ~

"Turn your ass towards the camera."

She did as she was told.

"Spread your cheeks. Wider. I want to see your asshole before I fill it."

She didn't like this angle. She wanted to see her Master, glimpse his face on the screen as he ordered her around. Still, she always did as she was told.

"Have you been training like to I instructed?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good. Because if you haven't this will not be fun for you. We both know, no matter what, this is going to be fun for me. Go get the package I sent you."
"Yes, Master."

She scurried across her room, picked up the box, and placed it on the bed.

"Open it."

She tore at the packaging. Inside was filled with tissue paper. Lifting the delicate wrapping, she saw it.

"Get the bottle of lube."

It sat on her end table.

"Turn your ass towards me. Spread your cheek with one hand. Lube up my pretty little hole with the other."

It was his hole, his mouth, his body, to be used in anyway he saw fit. She remembered that, loved that, as she pumped lube onto her fingertips and caressed her opening for him to watch.

"More. Good. Stick a finger in. That's it. Shove some more lube inside. You'll need it next."

She did as she was told.

"Now pick it up."

It was heavy, which made sense. It was big. Bigger than she'd ever taken before.

"Lube all around it."

It looked like a freakishly large tear drop. She thought this ironic. She was sure there would soon be tears.

"Now bring the tip to my hole. Keep spreading your cheek with your other hand. Is the tip against my hole?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good. Push."

It was as she knew, at first. The familiar relaxation, letting go, letting something in. Only it kept getting bigger. And bigger. And bigger. She eased it in slowly, asshole spreading, as her Master watched and spoke.

"That's my good little slut, getting her asshole spread wide open for her Master. Filling my hole to the brim.

"How does it feel, my little slut? To have something of mine in you. To feel it slide into your ass. Filling your hole. I want to see you take it. Take all of it. All of it. Me filling you to the brim."

She worked it in slowly, an eighth of an inch at a time. Breathing. Relaxing. With his voice, imaging it was his hand pushing the plug into her. His slow movement, filling her ass up.


It was in. All the way in. Her ass stretched more and filled fuller than ever before.

Her eyes were soaked with tears she willed herself not to cry. Her body shivered from the over stimulation, wanting desperately to cum.

"Master, may I?"
"My little slut took all of it. Sucked my plug into her ass just like I told her too. Turn around, I want to see your face. Are those tears?"
"Yes, Master."
"From the endurance?"
"Yes, Master."
"You are going to endure a bit more for me. Position five."

She paused for a moment before accepting his command. Lifting her torso up, she sat back, her ass against her feet, her hands on her thighs. She tried her best not to groan as her own body weight pushed the plug in just a little farther.

"Good, my little slut. Position six."

She tucked her toes under, lifting her body up just a little. She spread her knees, showing her Master her slut pussy. She interlocked her fingers behind her head. Sat back on her heels.

"Good, my little slut. Play with your clit."

She licked her fingertips and began rubbing herself. Her body could barely take any more sensation. But she pushed through. She would do anything her Master wished.

"I want to see my plug in you. Position seven."

She turned, ass up in the air, back arched, arms stretched out in front as her tits tickled against her bed spread.

"Did I tell you to stop playing with yourself?"
"No Master."

Her hand went back to her clit.

"Start hitting my plug with your other hand."

She was forced to balance her body on her face and shoulders, but she didn't care. Every inch of her body was energized, fueled by her Master's cruel lust. She slapped the plug's base while playing with herself, her ass and pussy right in front of the camera for her Master to see. She moaned despite herself.

"My little slut."
"Yes, Master."

She gasped. Bit her bed spread. Rubbed her clit faster. Slapped her plug harder. Panted. Her body convulsed. She screamed, "Thank you Master. Thank you Master." And came as her Master watched.

When she finished, she sat in front of the laptop in position five, plug still delightfully inside her.

"My little slut, it's getting late. I have to go to bed, and so do you. But before we part, position seven."

She turned and stretched out her body.

"Now, relax and pull out my plug. Slowly. Just as slowly as when I ordered it into your body."

She gripped the base and eased out the teardrop. New tears entered her eyes as the plug left her ass. Her Master was leaving her body. Taking away that piece of him she'd accepted into herself. She worked the toy out, trying to enjoy each minuscule sensation as it exited her ass.

When gone from her hole, she returned to position five, plug in hand.

"You will do this every third night for two weeks, just as we have just done. My plug in. You playing with yourself. Cuming. And then pulling my plug out."
"Yes, Master."
"And you will remember whose name to scream, who to thank each time my plug is filling you up and making you cum?"
"Yes, Master."
"Until next time, my little slut, when on the fifteenth day I will be there in the flesh, and it will be my hand penetrating you."

Wednesday, April 17, 2013


~ erotica ~

"How was your test?"
"I thought college was suppose to be about learning. This shit feels more like torture."


"When examining the works of. Of. Copley. When examining his portraits. On the whole. One sees. Oh God."
"This is not religion class, Ms. Lane. And though Copley's work is magnificent, I do not believe anyone has seen God in his art. Start again."
"Yes, Mr. Cecil."

Penny bit her lip, gripped the edge of his desk, and dung in her nails. Mr. Cecil knelt down and again pressed his lips onto Penny's clit.

"When examining the portraits. Mmm. Of. Mmm. Of Copley. One sees. One sees his exper. His exper. His expertise. In capturing. Detail. Form. And the human fa-a-ace."

Penny's voice rose an octave as her hips tilted up.

"The human face, you say?" said Mr. Cecil through teeth gripping Penny's mons.
"Yes. Sir. His a-bil-i-ty. To paint. Life. Like. Portraits. Surpassed. His. Con-tem-por-ar-ries."

Mr. Cecil relaxed his teeth.

"Can you give an example of this skill?"
"Yes, Sir."

Mr. Cecil resumed enjoying Penny's pussy.

"Copley was so. So detailed. In his work!"

Mr. Cecil slid two fingers into Penny's pretty pussy.

"So detailed, Ms. Lane?"
"So detailed! That portraits. Featuring! Men wearing. Formal white wigs! Include. Include powder. From. From their. From their wigs. Kissing."

Mr. Cecil stood, wrapped his free arm around Penny's neck, and pivoted her body up. As he brought his lips to Penny's mouth, embracing his ever eager student, he pistoned his fingers in and out of her hot pussy. Penny squealed, tasting her pussy on her mentor's lips, on his tongue, in his mouth, and cuming on his hand.

Mr. Cecil grabbed Penny's hair, tilted her head back, and said, "Kissing?"

"Kissing their shoulders."
"Very good, Ms. Lane. A+ on your oral exam."

Tuesday, April 16, 2013


~ a story ~

Never read his Twitter feed before bed. If you do, you'll start dreaming of him even before your eyes close. You'll wish for what you can't ever have, imagine a life you'll never live, and bath yourself in what-ifs til your heart groans.

Never comment on his blog. No matter how awesome you think his latest tattoo is. No matter how sweet his cat looks on his shoulder. No matter how much you just want to say hi. Reconnect. See how his life's been. You know how his life's been. You read his blog.

Never mention his name. Your friends are tired of hearing it. Of this new thing he did, this new adventure he's taking. Maybe he'll invite you, even though he always forgot your name. Your friends know the reality you are unwilling to accept. Your friends have tried to be kind, patient. Your friends are tiring of your emotional broken record.

Never leave the house without a book. You'll need to plunge yourself into another world on the bus trip to work. During your lunch break. On the walk back. If you don't, your thoughts will turn to him. To his pretty brown eyes. His baby face. His trim frame. The way he looks when he's jogging. When he's engaging a crowd.

Never look at his Facebook. Ever. You don't want to know his status update. You don't want to see her name, whoever she is. The latest in his line of perfect perky girls he's dating, a string of blonde-haired-blue-eyed-Barbie's since college. You'll only print out pictures of her, scratch out the eyes, and draw mustaches all over her face. Facebook is forbidden.

Never go to the reunion without a friend. Preferably someone from high school so they know to distract you when he walks in. Hopefully they'll get your attention away from the door for more than five minutes in the night. And, when he does arrive, if they are clever, they'll get you to not notice him for a breath or two.

But, above all else, never speak to him. Not ever again. Because the last time was enough. He didn't even get the first letter of your name right. Didn't remember your tutoring him. The study prep. The homework help. The ride home when his car broke down on the side of the road and you just happen to pass by a minute after. He offered you a bit of cash, but you said no. And then he was out of your car, gone into his home. No thankful hug, or a dared dream kiss.

And then graduation, when you were finally going to say it to him. How much you loved him. All the times he'd made you smile just from the beauty of his face. How you couldn't imagine yourself with anyone else anywhere in the world.

Except he proposed to his girlfriend. Right there. In the middle of it all. And she said yes. And there were cheers. And they were hoisted above the crowd, carried away. And you were left alone as the mass of people emptied out of the gymnasium. And when you're Mom put her hand on your shoulder and asked if you were okay, you said, "Never better.".

Monday, April 15, 2013



Three people died in Boston today. One of them was a child. Eight years old. A third grader who attended the Boston Marathon, who possibly cheered on a family member, lost their life today.

More than one hundred people were injured in the dual blasts. Multiple injuries included the loss of limbs. I don't think that is a coincidence. A bombing at a marathon that causes people to lose legs. Someone is trying to say something, though we don't yet know what.

I listen to NPR for my news. They played the sound clips of the blasts. People screaming. Fleeing. The second boom in the background. They talked about the race volunteers and the police assisting with the crowds. All the things you hope will happen when tragedy strikes.

The point of terrorism is to inflict not only harm but fear. Fear to go out. Fear to do anything. Fear to live your life.


April 15th.

Today was Tax Day, but also Patriot's Day in Boston. Every year they run the race, celebrate the battles at Lexington and Concord. Every year there is a celebration in Boston on April 15th.

What will next year be like?


I heard about the explosions in my car while listening to NPR around 3pm. At first only faint snippets. A few injuries.

I parked, went inside my home, did internet things. And then I read Twitter. And the numbers had grown. And the President was set to speak at 6:10pm.

I got inside my car, turned on the engine. Turned on the radio. I sat, waited, listened to what he had to say. No real new information, but a promise to find out who did this and why. A small comfort in this time of turmoil.

I drove to Popeye's. I bought fried chicken and biscuits. I went to go see my friends.

Because that was what I had planned to do before I learned someone or someones inflicted this horrible act of terrorism (let's call it what it is) upon the people of Boston and its guests.

When I arrived at my friends' home, one of them was pinging people he knew in the area, making sure they were okay.

And then we ate fried chicken and drank wine and watched a movie on a laptop because FUCK YOU!

FUCK YOU whoever did this!

FUCK YOU whoever tried to instill fear in the hearts of people in this country!

FUCK YOU whoever killed a child, two other people, and injured over a hundred others!

FUCK YOU whoever ruined a beautiful joyful day for people who trained for years, raced their hearts out, for the people who cheered and encouraged them, for a city who celebrated!

And FUCK YOU if you think you have won. Because you have not.

I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to be bullied by unknown agents of terror.

I'm working in DC tomorrow. I will still take the Metro to work. I will still do my job. I will not let fear take hold of me. I will not let you win, whoever you are.

Fuck you, fear. Fuck you, terrorists. Fuck you.

Saturday, April 13, 2013



I woke up, not wanting to get out of bed. I was tired from two long days of work. Still, I had more work that day to accomplish. Bills to pay. The same ole song and dance.

I rolled over, tried to fall back to sleep. No go.

I sat up, pulled out my netbook, and wrote. Blog posted, I hopped out of bed, grabbed my robe, and headed to the bathroom.

As I was about to jump into the shower, I noticed some weird scab-like thing on my hip. I scratched at it. It didn't go away. I tried again. It moved.

I freaked out.

I grabbed a pair of tweezers and pulled. And pulled. Finally most of it broke free, but some was still in my skin.

More freaking out.

I took a breath.

I could hear my roommates talking in their room.

"Hey guys, I need your help. And sorry but I'm naked."

They opened their door.

Lending a Hand

I showed them the tissue with the bug on it. One roommate identified it as a deer tick. The other confirmed. And there was still some in my skin.

My tweezers were no good. They used their own. I leaned against the doorjamb as one roommate worked on trying to pull out whatever was left in my skin. The other sat on their bed and observed, giving pithy commentary.

When my first roommate couldn't get the stuff out, the other jumped in. Gave instructions. There was a needle. And then a knife. They both apologized for the pain. I didn't care if it hurt. I just wanted the shit out of my skin.

After some cutting and scrapping, and a flinch or two from me, my body was finally free of the bug's remnants.

"Thinking back, if this had happened to me while I lived alone, I would've freaked," one roommate said. I didn't say it, but I recognized I would've probably done the same. In fact, I kinda had.


So now I'm on the lookout for any change on my skin on the bite area. I really hope I don't get Lime disease.

My roommates assured me, since I caught the tick before it really started to feed (it was flat when I pulled it off), my chances are low.

It was a relatively mild winter here. The bugs are beginning to wake up. I already found a random stinkbug in my car the other day.

This is just the start of the infestation.

Friday, April 12, 2013


~ erotica ~
{Trigger Warning: This is a rape fantasy.}

I carried my backpack over my shoulder, beleaguered from my long day and night's work. Though there were few contents, it still felt heavy, weighing me down as I tried to walk home.

I knew this path, this way I took every day or night. My long hours dulled my mind, but I could never forget the way home. Down two blocks, turn left. Pass the cheap gas station where beggars asked for change during the warmer days. No need to avoid the fried chicken and lake trout restaurant across the street, whose aromas often tempted me. Right after the corner store; too late to stop in for a few groceries. Five blocks more, and then home.

My feet moved without me thinking. My mind didn't register the actual short length, instead feeling my fifteen minute walk as a labor.

I loved these streets, the people in the them, the neighborhood which I adopted and the inhabitants who accepted me.

So I knew it wasn't one of them who did it.

Not Mr. Brown, who swept his front stoop every Sunday, watered his flowers in his window box every other day, and was the first to have his trash and recycling out, ordered and more neat than refuse should be.

It wasn't Dobs or Karl, the vets who rested their bones on the sidewalk in front of the gas station from March to September, and only asked for a little help when I could.

It wasn't Ms. Crystal, who owned the restaurant, and always wanted to put good food in my belly and a smile on my face.

It wasn't the Asian family who ran the corner store, whose kids I'd seen grow up in the five years since I moved to this part of town.

It wasn't my neighbors, my community.

It happened after a particularly long day. Sixteen hours of work with few moments of rest. My whole body ached.

My steps were slow, my march home more strenuous then need be. My limbs moved out of will to rest, knowing at the end of my journey a bed and soft covers would soothe their pain.

I didn't notice the van as it approached. Didn't hear the door open. Didn't know a man got out behind me. Didn't know he had a knife, wore a mask, and stalked me for a block before he attacked.

First I felt the pull on my hair, craning my head back. Then there was the knife on my neck, the scratch, the few drops of blood. My hands gripped his arm. My bag hung from my elbow. He dragged me to the open door of the van. Pulled me in. Closed off what little light from the dark night was left.

There were four of them. One driving, because the van kept moving. One to hold my arms. Another to hold my legs. The last, my original attacker. They all wore masks. They all wore gloves, leather. Boots, too. I guessed they were military. They communicated without words. Their cruelty was precise.

One pulled away my bag, pulled down my pants and panties. One by my head used his knees to hold my arms. He tore open my shirt. A knife split my bra. In a matter of seconds, I was naked and open.

I was pinned with my back on a mattress. It didn't move as they worked.

I heard the ripe of condoms, and was shocked at a flash of relief.

The one by my head placed his hand over my throat. I felt a knife against my cheek. I knew what he would want.

The one by my ankles bent my knees. All three flipped me over.

The one by my head grabbed my hair. Lifted my head. Pushed open my jaw. He shoved his cock in my mouth. I gagged, but took it. Tears trickled down my face. He rubbed a gloved hand over my eyes. Then smacked my ass.

The one by my ankles gripped my hips. Lined up his cock. He drove his dick deep inside my cunt. My hands held onto the edge of the mattress. He pounded my pussy hard and fast.

The one at center used a gloved hand to stroke his cock. Rubbed his dick against my ass. Used a cold slick finger to probe my asshole.

The one in my cunt stopped, pulled out, moved back. The one at center took his place. His dick circled my asshole before pushing, pushing. Sliding all the way inside me. More tears.

He didn't fuck my ass. He followed the rhythm of the man by my head. Rocking his body with mine, cock slid in and out of my throat but remained in my ass.

Then I felt two sets of hands on my hips. Heard a gasp of pleasure. The man who invaded my pussy took refuge in the asshole of his friend.

They all followed a rhythm, a beat they knew well. I took them, accepted my fate.

When they were close, each rising to a crescendo together, the van stopped. I heard the driver's door open and close. In the time it took him to walk around, they all came, grunts and groans filling the small room.

The driver opened the side door. He pulled me out onto the sidewalk. Another flung my bag out.

All four men stood over me. I cowered, hiding my face from the dim light of the night, from their eyes. I felt the four streams of piss hit my back, my ass, my hair.

When they finished, they got back into their van and left.

I laid on the ground for a few breaths before raising my head to figure out where I was. At once, I knew. The small tree. The bike rack. The number on the building.

They discarded me at my front door.

Thursday, April 11, 2013


I have many different orgasms. Some are similar. Some are very different.

When I'm in the throws of masturbation, and an orgasm builds, I never know what it will feel like until it happens.

Often, while I'm cuming, I'll scream profanities and usually thank my fantasy Daddy for allowing me to have an orgasm (or for giving me one, depending on the story running through my mind as I cum). I'm usually loud, so I'm usually alone in the house.

Sometimes I'll play a masturbation game with myself. During the Usher song Hey Daddy (a staple of my masturbation play list), I'll wait til the line "Daddy's home, home for me" before I'll allow the vibrator on my clit. Then I'll only have to the end of the chorus to cum. If I can't achieve orgasm, I have to wait until the next bridge. I guess it's kind of self training, though really I just find it fun and hot.

On occasion, as I'm cuming, or as the orgasm is ending, I'll name the sensation I felt.

"That. Was. Smoooth." An airy, almost raspy voice.
"Tickley. Tickley. It tickles." High pitched and laughing hysterically.
"Pri-ckle-ly, hey hey hey." High pitched and giggling.
"Oh. Yes. Juicy." Lower range of my voice, as if Barry White has taken over.

Yes, I named one of my orgasms Juicy.

My cums vary depending on what implement I'm using. Did I achieve ecstasy just with my WeVibe and my blue dildo? My Lelo with the blue dildo? Did I already switch to the black dildo? What about the Energizer vibrator? The new Hitachi (just picked it up at Frolicon)? Is there no dildo at all? No vibrator (a rarity)?

Position matters. On my back with lots of pressure on my clit from the vibrator is sure fire way. Also on my stomach, fucking the dildo while rubbing up against the vibrator. Occasionally I'll use a crotch rope to hold in the vibrator, my dildo, and my sometimes butt plug.

The sensations racing through my body varying. All of my orgasms start from my hips/pelvic bone. (Thank you sacral nerve.) From there, the pleasure travels. Sometimes it just darts around and around my hips. Sometimes it loops around and then darts down into my thighs. Sometimes it shoots across my abdomen. Sometimes it travels all the way up to my torso, my arms, my tits. Sometimes its fast, lightning sensations. Sometimes it's a slow rumble across the landscape of my frame.

And then there are the full body orgasms. The sensation starts at my hips, travels in waves to my legs, my abdomen, my chest, all the way up. My neck gets tingly. My head is swimming. Every inch of my body, every nerve on my skin, is electric with pleasure.

There is no wrong, no worry, no sorrow. I can think of nothing but now. I can feel nothing but now. There is only yes. Yes. And more, please God more. And a hope, a vain wish, for it to never stop.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013


~ a story ~

It was a simple request.

I was known for my cigar service, my love and care in the role. The time I'd taken to learn about the act, as well as multiple types of cigars and the accoutrement surrounding the ritual.

The Top was respected in our community, though I had little time interacting with him. He was quiet, reserved without being introverted. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did utter words they were always worth hearing.

I found him alluring, enticed by his mystery and beauty. He was handsome. A shock of gray down one side of his hair. Fit firm frame. Always wearing leather boots. Ever meticulous in his appearance. Whenever possible, a cigar in his hand.

So when he approached me at the end of a party, with few else still around, and long past his normal departure time, I stood up straight. I held my hands behind my back. I gave him due deference to his station in our community.

"Kat, nice to see you this evening."
"You as well. I trust you enjoyed your time tonight."
"Immensely. Thank you for your attendance during the smoker."
"It was my pleasure."
"I could see that. You take great pleasure in cigar service."
"Yes, I do."
"Do you teach?"
"On occasion, if the opportunity presents itself."
"I'm sure you excel at teaching as I've seen you excel at most everything."
"Thank you. Your appreciation of my efforts is quite humbling."
"I have a girl. She's pretty, but shy. Would you meet her?"
"Yes, of course. When?"
"I am off tomorrow. Your address?"
"I will text you."
"I have my own already."
"What time?"
"7:30pm. Just before sunset."
"Very well. Last, what honorific would you like?"
"She calls me Daddy. You, Kat, may call me Sir."
"Thank you, Sir, for your invitation and confidence in my abilities."

His home was brick, large, in a quiet part of the city with trees lining the lane and no homes less than one hundred feet apart. I parked in his driveway, pulled out my messenger bag, and walked up to his door. Checking my phone, it was 7:15pm.

As soon as I knocked, I heard scurrying footsteps approach the door. As the door opened, I glimpsed a petite woman with short brown hair wearing a pink sundress, glasses, and sandals. She smiled at me for only a moment before darting her eyes to the ground.

"You must Kat. Hi."

Her words were quick, darting almost as fast as her eyes had.

"Hello. Excuse my early arrival."
"May I take your bag for you?"
"Of course."

I handed her my messenger bag. She gestured for me to enter, then closed the door behind me.

His home held an air of sophistication without the pomp and circumstance. Shelves housed what seemed like years of knick-knacks from a life well lived. The furniture was a mixed of deep browns and black, all leather. A fireplace to my right as I entered with pictures on the mantel. A tall wide wooden staircase to my left. On the far right, black marble on the kitchen floors and blood red marble for the counter tops. A heavy wooden dining table to my far left.

She led me to the back patio, viewable through the open air arrangement of the home. He sat beneath an awning, donned in full leathers, staring out into the backyard garden and the trees behind his home. The plume from his already half smoked cigar danced up in a curvy line.

She slid the glass door open, waited for me to exit, and then closed the door behind me.

"I expected you'd be early."
"Pardon my..."
"No pardon necessary. I appreciate your punctuality."

He waved me over to a chair near his with his cigar hand, drawing a smokey form in the air; I sat.

"Would you like something to drink or eat?"

On the small table was a host of cold finger foods: fresh fruit, raw vegetables, and small slices of cheese. A pitcher of lemonade perspired, a few drops of water kissing the metal table. His girl sat down my bag beside me, picked up a glass, and poured me a drink before my answer. She then sat on a pillow at the foot of her Daddy.

"Thank you for your hospitality."
"Thank you for your time."

I sipped the cold beverage and tried to relax in the warm Spring air.

Looking over, I saw how he lazily stroked his girl's hair. She nuzzled his hand and softly cooed. For a moment, I felt a twinge of envy. She looked so happy, so peaceful, so pleased there at his knee. Their manner was matter-of-fact. This was their life. They fit together so well.

He tapped her on the shoulder. She cupped her hands, one over the other, and held them up as if in supplication. He rolled his ash into her hands. She continued to hold her hands up until he tapped her on the shoulder again. She then licked up the ash from her palm.

My emotions turned from envy to confusion.

"Sir, why am I here?"
"You know cigar service, and this is my Sunday afternoon cigar time."
"Yes, but she knows cigar service."
"Why am I here to teach her if she needs no instruction?"
"Teach her?"

Confusion came into his eyes. And then a moment of understanding.

"No. I should have been more clear. I wanted you here to be next to her, to play with us. Tonight is, for lack of a better word, a date."

At once my heart jumped into my throat. I felt horrible at my previous moment of envy, yet also joyous at the idea of what the next moment could bring, if I were brave enough to ask the question straining from my lips.

"Sir, might I request a small gesture?"
"Of course. You are our guest. Ask anything."
"Might I sit at your other knee?"

For the first that evening, and my first time witnessing it, a wide grin burst across his face. His girl peeked up at me, a flash of glee in her eyes. Before he uttered a word, she scurried off and brought back a matching pillow, sitting it on the other side of her Daddy before returning to her spot.

"Well, you have my girl's answer. Mine is the same."

I sunk down from my chair, crawled the minuscule distance over, and nestled myself on the pillow. Leaning my head against his knee, he caressed my cheek with his right hand, his cigar hand, as smoke danced around my face.

I could hear her cooing, and his breathing, as I closed my eyes and actually, truly, relaxed.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013


I suppose I was overdue. It hadn't happened in awhile.

Monday I'm working (happens a lot when I'm working, or on my way to work). My job's tedious and annoying. I'm wearing an ugly orange vest and carrying around two orange flags. I'm a spotter for a forklift as we maneuver gear around in a high foot traffic area.

Most people are following my instructions and walking a safe distance around the lift. Some people I have to yell at because they are so absorbed in their iPhoneAndroidMusicThing that they almost decapitate themselves.

So as I'm blocking people from hurting themselves, one older black gentleman walks by, looks me up and down, and yells, "Oh yeah girl, make that money. Make that money, girl."

I'm startled for a moment. It's been sometime since I've been catcalled. As is my normal way, I ignore him and go on with my day.

Then last night, Tuesday night, the next night, I'm walking towards my load out. Monday was a hard day. Today is no better. 6am load in. 3pm touch ups. 10pm out. I'm tired. I didn't get enough sleep.

Monday was draining. Tuesday is taking its toll. By the time I'm walking towards my strike, I just want to finish the gig and collapse into my bed.

As I walk through the parking lot to the main entrance, I see two guys by a 26' box truck. They're working with another company. I put a car between myself and the two men as I make my way towards the front. They're chatting amicably, and I get this feeling. Sure enough, as I walk by, a high pitched shrill whistle rings through the air.

I'm not startled. I am slightly annoyed. But I was expecting it. I keep walking.

I don't get it. Cat calls (from randoms on the street) have never caught my attention except in negative fashion. Why do guys do it? What's the point?

In my experience as a "shorty", cat calls are the exact opposite way of engendering my affection. At best, I ignore them and go about my day. At worst, I loathe the person hooting in my direction and wish a thousand plagues on their lives.

Has a cat call ever worked? I can't honestly think of one person I know who has responded to a cat call with a phone number. Laughs, maybe. A smile, possibly. But, for me, absolute loathing.

Twice in two days. A record for me solo.

Once, though, when I went on a high school trip to Puerto Rico, our group encountered cat calls multiple times a day. Then again, we were a group of eight sixteen and seventeen year old girls in the middle of a Latin cultural Mecca. To not be cat called would've been odd.

Monday, April 8, 2013


Waking up and my elbow aches because, in the middle of the night, I turned over and ended up sleeping on it funny. And now that I'm awake, I can't just drift back into a snooze-ful slumber because the pain, though not debilitating, is annoying enough to distract me.

Trying to snooze for an hour, only to finally give up, brush my teeth, and hop back into bed.

Gray sky outside is foreboding. I wonder if it will rain. No running today.

I sit up on my bed, pull out my netbook, and look up information for an open call for submissions. Jotting down the requirements, ideas for my story pop into my head. Revisiting an idea I had yet to flush out, I realize it's perfect. I start typing.

And then I stop. The ache in my arm is gone, replaced now with a desire to go back to sleep. But I know it will not be in my best interest; too many things to do before work.

And then I remember how I felt the night before as I tried to go to sleep. And I realize, "Shit, I have to dealing with feelings. Stupid stupid feelings. There went my morning."

I open my netbook back up. I type more, no longer caring about cadence or developing a story. I type my thoughts, all the feelings, until I have pages on my screen of the things I tried to ignore. All the things I hoped would be lost in my dreams.

I read the words back. I edit, add to, and save the document.

I do it again for other feelings, less impactful thoughts that still warrant some time. I flush it all out before I have to be more productive. I run out of time for more fun writing.

I get up. I throw on work clothes. I eat food. I watch a touch of NetFlix. I mend my work pants cause I don't want to buy new ones yet. I leave for work.

Outside today. I find a parking spot not effected by rush hour. I wait til closer to my call time. I keep a look out for meter maids. I try not to bake in my car. I pay the meter. I walk to the site. I work.

And work.

And work.

Four hours, what I was slated for, turns into five. And six.

I get really pissed. I cancel my dinner plans. I reschedule for Wednesday. I try to not yell at people who are being stupid. I remind myself I'm angry because my blood sugar has dropped. And I'm working outside. And my job sucks sometimes. I breathe.

I end work at the 6.5hr mark. I try not to be mad anymore since I am on my way home.

I drive a friend to their car. I buy fast food, cause at this point I really don't give a shit.

I sit on my couch with a roommate watching Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic be awesome. I feel better about my life.

I finish my food. I finish the show. I clean up some in the kitchen. I drag my ass upstairs to my bedroom.

And then I realize, after I start taking off my disgusting work clothes, that my clean clothes are downstairs in the dryer. GROAN. No bed just yet.

I drag my ass downstairs. I retrieve my clothes. I come back upstairs.

Brush my teeth. Get into bed. Open my netbook. Type. Wish I had more time to write, but a 6am call looms.

The good news: I learned today I was accepted into community college. Maybe less groaning in my future?

Saturday, April 6, 2013


I hated my job tonight.

The short version is that someone else fucked up but I get the blame for the screw up.

I thought I did everything right tonight. Even with the pop up issues. Even with the running back to the warehouse for more equipment, rushing to finish everything on time. I thought I got it right.

And then I learned I didn't because of one small lapse.

The worst was the condescension in the voice of the persons pointing out my error. I kept myself from crying. I didn't want to give the air of loathing surrounding me the joy of seeing my pain. I gathered up my equipment and got out of there as quick as I could.

I keep playing the decision over and over in mind. If I had just... If only I'd... Why didn't he just...

You can drive yourself mad with What Ifs.

Now I'm just left with fatigue and frustration. At my job. At the gentleman who didn't do his. At the women who treated me like an ill-informed fresh-off-the-boat oh-aren't-you-so-cute-but-you're-wrong-and-I'm-gonna-take-the-time-to-point-out-your-wrong-wrongness idiot.

I hated tonight. When I signed out, even with the large amount of hours for which I'll get paid, I was mad. Mad because I know I'll have to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. It will be at the very least two years of community college and a few years of medical school where I'll need this job to get by.

I appreciate that I have this job, knowing there are so many others who don't. But sometimes this job feels like an abusive relationship I just can't get out of. I know it pays my bills. I know it keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. I am grateful for that, really. But when do you say, "Enough is enough?"

Will it have to be like my serving days? Nightmares about customers. Getting yelled at and cursed out to my face. Finding a corner to cry in, only to come back to work to finish my shift. I don't want that.

I nearly cried tonight. Because of my job.

So I will probably get a complaint lodged against me because of the incident. That will make two in my last two gigs.

I got a phone call from my boss during Frolicon stating I had been doing a good job, but could I not talk about my personal life. Apparently someone had complained about me talking about my extracurricular activities. That is a whole other can of worms I do not want to open right now before I pass out to a hopefully blissful sleep. But I have to say, the mere fact that I tolerate shitty misogynistic comments by guys all the time yet I am reprimanded for talking about my life. Hypocrisy much?

Its nights like tonight that remind me this is not the sum total of my life. I don't live to work; I work to live.

This is not what I will be doing ten years from now. This is not my future. This job does not define me.

Friday, April 5, 2013



Ever let your mind wander...

Ever ride public transportation, look at the people around you, and ponder what they're thinking about? Their shitty day? What they have planned for their night? The person sitting next to them? The person they want next to them? You?

Ever catch eyes with someone and question what they meant by their glance? Was it on purpose? By accident? Were they imagining you as they would have you, right there, on the dirty floor, not caring who watched? Were they envisioning you naked, waiting, wanting them? Were you their fantasy, attainable or ever elusive?

Ever notice some random looking at you? Checking you out. Up and down. As you stand and they sit. As you're reading or looking out the window. As you're far away from that bus or train, but they are there, right there, imagining who knows what about you.

Ever think about just going for it? Meeting their stare. Making your way over to them. Trying to look sexy as you avoid bumping into people or seats. Not taking your eyes off them. Looming above them. Or sitting close to them. And asking, flat out, "What are you thinking about?"

Ever have the balls to make the offer? Will it be their place or yours? Now? Right now? Is it before or after work? Is it cold, both of you bundled up, but enough figure showing to know you'll like what you see later? Is it warm, you both showing off the goods for any and everyone to see?

Ever been bold, daring? Guiding them up the stairs to your small apartment. Ignoring the looks of the neighbors as you pass in the hallway. Not caring that you weren't expecting a guest. Dropping your coat by the door. Your bag by the couch. Leaving the windows unshielded. Offering them a drink, no matter the time. Handing them their liquor. Throwing yours back. Leaving the glass or bottle or can on the counter. Slowly unbuttoning your shirt. Or sliding off your strap. Or pulling fabric up off your torso. Looking at them as if to say, "What are you waiting for?"

Ever get exactly what you want when you want it from a person you've just met? Their hands all over your body. Their tongue tracing the lines of your flesh. Kisses. Bites. Caresses. Sucking. Fucking. Never using names. Letting yourself go. Letting yourself be as nasty, carnal, ferocious, all-in as you've always dreamed.

Ever cum and not know what name to scream, who to thank, for your pleasure?

Ever just not give a fuck?

Thursday, April 4, 2013


~ erotica ~

There were many words he could've used to describe it. Phallus was a strong choice, but to him it seemed too clinic. Shaft held gravitas but didn't match his style.

Instead he loved to call it his cock.

"You like it when my cock is jammed up inside you like that? My cockhead hitting your cervix. Pounding all up in your pussy."
"You want my cock in your mouth.  You wanna suck this cock, swallow it down your throat."
"My cock is already hard for you, baby. Come on and get up on this cock."

He strutted when he used the word. Stood up straighter. Got a little harder whenever he uttered it. Cock worked well for him.

But, for me, I loved to call it his dick. There was just something about the way those four letters played on my tongue, pushed through my teeth, and spat out of my mouth.

"Fuck, I want your dick inside me. Pounding me. I miss it when you're dick isn't in my pussy."
"Please let me suck your dick. I want your dick in my mouth. I want to lick and suck your dick all night."
"I can feel how hard your dick is. Your dick is happy to see me."

When he let me play with it, when I was feeling whimsical and he was in a fun mood, I'd get eye to eye with his dick and whisper to it.

"That's a fun dick, isn't it. I think this dick likes it when I squeeze it, caress it. You like that, dick? You like it when I lick, right dick?  This dick loves my lips, my mouth on it. You're my dick, aren't you? Your dick wants only me."

He'd smile, pat me on my head, and say, "Yeah babe, my cock is all yours." 

I'd smile back and say, "Yay! Dick all for me."

Then my mouth would be on it, bobbing up and down, licking and sucking. His eyes would roll back. He'd start moaning. I'd reach down and rub my clit, pussy already wet and wanting. And neither of us cared who said what about anything.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013


I am sick and tired of one word I hear all the time: cute.

People often use that word to describe me. People, during first introductions, will use it. People who have never known each other will utter the exact same sentence to compliment my looks.

"You are cute."

I get it. I totally get it. The smile. The curls. The school girl outfits. The cheeks. The dimples. Especially the dimples.

I'm not saying I'm not cute. That would be a denial of a basic fact. That is not why I'm writing this.

It's just.

I know one might be happy to be called such a sweet description. There are far worse things a person could be called. But sometimes that word makes me want to bash my head up against a wall.

I hear it all the time. ALL THE TIME.

No one has, or of yet, called me that word during sex. (If they had, our fun would've ended far too soon.) But for a person who is so sexual, for a footloose and fancy free slut like me, cute can feel less than apt.

Why not sexy? Or provocative? Or enchanting?

Why not engaging? Or just plain hot?

Cute seems so small, almost dismissive, in comparison to just about any other compliment when it comes to looks.

Curvaceous. Cunning. Coy.

I could just as easily be called any of the descriptors I've used thus far. Yet, it is cute I always get.

Cute makes its way into conversation as offhand comments, out of context interjections, never falling from my lips.

Once someone who I found to be drop dead sexy called me cute during our initial flirtation. In that instance, I didn't fault them. Nor did their words take away from the fact I wanted them to do any and everything to me. Still, it was a slight sting to the moment, a paper cut on the edge of an unforgettable encounter.

There have been times when cute was far away, not existing in my world. The one moment I keep going back to was about a year ago. As the Gent and I were fucking, he looked down on me, I looked up at him, and he called me beautiful.  As he drove his cock in and out of me, I believed him. For those precious breaths, I felt special. I felt sexy and gorgeous and irresistible. I felt beautiful. But those moments are too few and far between.

I can't run away from the word. I can't deny its existence, much like one can't deny the face staring back at them in the mirror. I see it everyday. I see why people use that word to describe me. It is appropriate. It is a part of who I am, and how the world perceives me, whether I like it or not.

It is a four letter word I've learned to live with, though if I never hear it again it will be too soon.

Fuck it, I'm cute.

However, I would love it if the world saw, and knew, I was more than just that little word.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Baby Bootblack

I had more than my fair share of memorable moments and lesseons learned from this past Winter Fire, but one in particular has stuck with me: I will always schedule myself for the last bootblacking shift of an event.

The last two hours of my chair time at DO:WF were hectic, and challenging, and I would not trade them for the world. I can't even tell you how many people sat in my chair. Person after person put their leather in my hands.

I was nervous at first, but when I saw the long list of people waiting, and it dawned on me the limited amount of time we had, I found myself dropping into a zone I had not felt before.

Fast forward to this past weekend at Frolicon. I scheduled myself for eight hours of blacking, two four hour shifts over the two days, one of which included the last shift of the event. My chair time was not as hectic as it had been in February, but it was still something altogether amazing.

Just a year ago, I was a novice bootblack. I sat and watched as Elegant worked, taking pointers from her wealth of experience. Previous to that event, I had only blacked for friends, never publicly. Elegant offered up her kit to me, and a new friend sat for me to black his boots. He took pictures I later posted to my Fet.

This past weekend could not have felt more different from last year. I was confident. I felt sure of my skills. No more nerves. No more fear. I sat in my chair and waited to perform my service.

As the last shift ended, after I'd had a couple dozen people cycle in and out of my care, I felt great. I packed up my supplies with a smile.

But my new found confidence was not the only reason for my happiness. As the last bootblack finished work on her last piece of leather, others gathered in the area. Her friends blocked the view right beside my stand. A person served as a table, holding boots to be gifted.

When the last bootblack finished, her friends parted. Her mentor spoke words for and about her. There were hugs and tears and cheers. The last bootblack was gifted a shiny pair of boots of her own, showing her progress in her craft, her care, her dedication to her work, all that she had learned over 14 months of instruction.

As her mentor laced up the new boots with pretty pink chord, I stood on the side of the circle, seeing all the faces of her friends. In that moment, I felt something stir inside me.

I wanted that, the community, the fidelity, the shared comradery of this group of folks in leather.

I am not where she is, nor have I had the training she's had. Still, I am a bootblack (though maybe just a baby bootblack). Each time I sit down and work, I am learning. I am grateful for my haphazard training, for the many voices who've guided me along the way this past year and a half, and for those who will teach me more as I grow in my craft.

And I hope, one day, I too will have that moment of a gift of leather.

Monday, April 1, 2013


Since I adopted a new writing goal for this blog, I've found myself wondering if I made the right decision. Since I am not expected to have new content everyday, I've given myself an easy out, settling for less than my potentional.

In fact, I've not been good about posting every other day like I planned, often throwing in bursts of entries, catching up with my long lapses. (See the three entries tonight, for example.)

As I've grown as a writer, starting around age 7 until now, I've seen a haphazard pattern. I'll write, jotting down a burst of ideas. I'll get some short stories out or a novella or poetry. I'll journal almost every day. I'll have this huge ocean of ideas I have to bring forth. And when I do, I feel awesome. I am the shit.

But then I drift. I let life get in the way. I allow all the things that make me busy to pop up and pull me away from pen and paper or my computer. I take a break, but it isn't a conscious break.

I always came back to writing, eventually. I always found myself one day compelled to scribble out pages on a thought or a story that was kicking around in my mind.

But those breaks scare me a little. At times I worry that my brain atrophies, losing some of the magic I once had, making it that much harder to re-commit myself to my work.

Like I said, I always come back. The urge, the need, is never far away. I can't not write. I just have to.

These past few months, giving myself the space for a partial break on this blog, has felt less than good. I have less pressure, no more constant deadline, but I also feel lazy, like I'm not really pushing myself.

And then I went to Frolicon.

I'm back now, having had some geeky kinky fun. While I was there, my time was split between two loves: writing and bootblacking (on which I'll focus my thoughts tomorrow).

As I saw familiar faces, heard familiar voices, and listened to familiar thoughts on the state of writing, one obvious notion slapped me hard: I could be up there. I could be one of the people on that panel. I could be doing this. Why am I not committing, really committing, to my writing?

On one particular panel, there were two writers who within the past year had their first works published. From the time I walked away from last Frolicon to the time I returned to the gathering, they had changed their literay lives. Have I?

Now, home and full of writerly thoughts, I see a need to push myself more, to do more, to be that much more motivated to my work, committed to the efforts it takes to make my writing that much better. And I'm left with an obvious yet poignant thought.

I can do this.

To that end, I'm adding another writing goal for myself for this year.

I will submit at least one work per month for the rest of the year for publication. I already submitted a short story last month, and I know of two more calls out for submissions due by the end of April and the end of May.

No more laziness. Time to kick it up again.
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