once in a while

Waiting, wistful–no, wishful, willful, unwilling, willing perhaps in the window seat, I peek out at the shadows on the street, half expecting your innocent prance past the parked cars across, up the path.

I found your note tucked into the letter box, your invitation, I was here, meet me once more, tomorrow, noon. I am here.

I am here, black sheer stockings rolled up my shaved legs early in the day, garters catching the lace beneath the short skirt, someone saw, blushed, said nothing, carried on, then whispered, he’ll think of me.

Think of me, I know you would be with me, if… If days were longer, if we had the time, space, cherished moments, life itself, some other life. Days grow shorter in autumn, clearer, these blue moons so unusual, still another three years’ wait, I hear, so rare, so lovely, you could.

We could, you know. We could race up the stairs once again, and you could catch me, throw me to the bed and kiss me, yes. You could lay your head in my lap and close your eyes, drift off, then stretch high to lie beside me, hold me close, too close, so close. You could let me love you while you fuck me I fuck you you love me.

Or maybe you do, or did, or wanted to, or could have, or could never say, or never did, or did, or will, or perhaps it was simply fear, or desire, deferred.

To greet you here, love, noon, today, tomorrow, skin so sweet, so six a.m., so Saturday, so sleep, now, love, sleep.

grass

The curtain swelled in the breeze, and the chugging chugging down below let into a pause, then another chug, and a whirr, and my peace was broken in the warm morning. The clock said ten a.m., which was impossible, I thought, the neighbors disturbing my morning so early, not so early, not the neighbors. It was you. You, tracing along the edge of hostas in the only shadows of a hot day, the tall grass lying in clumps as you circle my yard.

I am not supposed to be here, not now, not supposed to watch you bending to wipe your head with the bottom of that wet t-shirt. The grass has held the last days’ rain, now the sweet ancient scent of weeds, and summer, and the grass, small blades stuck to your calves and sockless ankles. Tea from the jug on the back porch, melting the ice as I pour it, and you look up. I didn’t bother to dress.

Grass rinses down the shower drain, soap smooth as I lather your chest, your tight back, familiar paths, the sliding mm, swell tightening, slick lather speeds my hand. I cannot help but grab you, you near bursting beneath the hot water, dirt rinsing from your neck, irresistible astringent, you Tarzan, I kiss your shoulders, your rough face, your tongue warm and soft while you pin me to the tiles, kick my legs open, the water beading in my hair, waiting, waiting, I gasp. You smile, and kiss my cheek, reach for two towels, hand me one.

You are silent as you bend to dry your feet, arousal on hold.

You are face down now, waiting for me this time, waiting for what? a whip? a kiss, a finger, my call, grass, delight, once, twice, three strikes, my, your red shoulders, the t-shirt, then when you will have gone, a ghost, a gift, a moment, a wait, a great desire, to sleep again.

fire escape

Remember that night when your black curls tumbled down onto your shoulders, your still-sober lips tracing the outline of my neck beneath my inch-long hair? We were quite a pair then, and you said so, as we dangled our bare feet from the third story fire escape and talked about the world between us in an essential moment alone that burned into my memory as if it were a habit. Your guests chattered in the living room, their fiddles and talk of Vallejo and the light from the apartment now theirs, not ours, the smoke from a neighbor’s barbecue, the stars, the rush of the busy world faraway. It was cooler here, high above, outside, the heat and grime of the day only lingering in the  un-air-conditioned buildings and down below on the expressway with the cars and the people walking on the other side, tomorrow’s headlines  from the dangerous park across the way. You pointed to the roses there, the pizza joint with its stained glass windows and Italian statues, the woman who held tight to her purse and lost it anyway as she fell to the sidewalk, gunshots still echoing each time that you watched my old car drive up to your building and you ran down the stairs to meet me outside in this, the only affordable neighborhood nearby.

You were young then. A week later you showed up outside my work and called up to me, then realizing that we had no balconies in these office buildings, ran up the four flights of stairs. I startled to look up and see you there, insisting you had to see me now, not in three hours. I screamed to see your head shaved, your indecency now reaching its heights as you told me of your adventures, your readings,  your rock star status across the states, your friend’s car broken down for hours on the side of a rural highway, you told me. And you told me of remembering the days you spent there once before, before you knew me, and I gazed at you, reaching for your hair that never grew back, gazing at you and your lips now distracting me from anything that may have been worthwhile in my office, the ladies laughing as I wandered back to my desk, struck down by your grand gesture, your impatience, by the thrilling thought of 5:00. They knew, you see, they knew what I did not know, and I would love you then, in spite of it all, as if fate had ordered it.

It was 2am when I drove home, Aretha singing on my AM radio, a natural woman, me, your fingers lingering beneath my lace blouse, the narrow neck of it stalling you. I had to unbutton it myself. You then removed my clothing like scarves one by one, the remaining hooks and zippers and buttons and such much simpler to decipher, to undo, to push apart the openings, your finger, tongue, words so filthy, I know, mi conchita, you said, I let you, begged you, moments like this, dark summer nights, a hot mattress, the whirr of a ceiling fan, your skin, your strange words still imprinted somewhere, retrievable on cold winter days, yes, it was real I tell myself, and then sometimes like now I wonder at times what was real, even now what is real.

wind

The windows rattle with each gust, wind restless, wind will not let me rest. I lie sleepless with the creaking shutters, the screen door that has not caught downstairs. Too lazy to leave my bed, I lie awake still listening, fearful, until I think the door might tear right off its hinges.

The stairs are warm, to my surprise, as I creep out, stairs so familiar, so welcoming, welcoming as the front door, the screen door now that I lock shut, if only for this night. Night now softer in the glow of a street light, wind ferocious, but it is my match, yes, my match now that I can see it clearly.

From the window below, the stars grow, bright in the sky cleared by the force, the cold bracing, embracing me as I unhitch the door, let it swing open, my hair blowing as I walk down to the path, the cold slap across my face, the searing heat beneath skin, your kiss, your violent lust.

e-lust 31

Welcome to e[lust] – Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #32 ? Start with the rules, come back in January to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

A Feminist Defense of Consensual Nonconsent – How does a woman who identifies as a feminist reconcile her desire to submit to her partner during sex? Being somewhat new to kink, I had some trepidations about how submission seemingly went against my ethics.

Intimates – As the evening drew on, I felt like the sexiest woman alive. It’s strange to describe it this way, but I actually felt brimming with a sort of sexual energy. A lustiness, a sexiness, an allure and a desire all at once.

Tightest Space – I’m paying close attention to your moans, and I stop whenever it feels like it might be too much. But the incredibly tight feeling of your ass gripping my cock is so delicious that I need to get all the way in.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

An Open Letter to the Sex Toy Industry – I write this post not to just let off some steam but with the smallest glimmer of hope that maybe…….just maybe….some of these words will land on the right computer screen and be taken to heart. Maybe one change will happen.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

International #Fisting Day!! – Beyond awareness and calling for action, I think International Fisting Day is a great day to celebrate fisting; an intimate, hugely erotic and often orgasmic act that doesn’t get the recognition it deserves.

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

A Bit about Crushes
Are You on the Pill?
How to Approach Your Partner with a Fantasy
Meeting New People
Sex And Disability: What Does the Literature Say?
Settling – Striving For Connections in Non-Monogamy
Sex and Heart Attacks
Training my rear end

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Getting Past The Word ‘Slut’
Private Pictures
The Fetish Fashion of l’Enfant Terrible

Kink & Fetish

Enough is Enough
Hands
In his hands the vibe was intensity personified
Live Well
Public Exposure: The Third Birthday Fantasy
Rope
Scammers come in different flavours
When Submission is a Dry Biscuit

Erotic Writing

A contrast in swinging
A Frightened Heart
6-Some Fun
Bent
Come Again
Emily
Her First Time
In the Bathroom
Move
treat

treat

A pomegranate martini later, I am touching his hand lightly, buzzed by the playful banter that only lets loose when I start to speak in French, when I wrap the scarf around my face, pretending it is a mask for Halloween.. maybe. Pretending he will use it to entice me, tease me, tempt me.

I order another. He does, too, reaches for his wallet and suggests we take our refreshments from the bar to a pair of plush chairs next to a glass fireplace–cozy with its fire, cold as fits this chic, antiseptic lobby where two strangers meet, exchange names only now. Jean-Paul meet Sylvie, we could say, and Jean-Paul has become increasingly attractive throughout the conversation, not the least because his leg keeps rubbing against mine. I remember things I have not thought in years, thinking in another language as I am while I flirt with him now. I roll through the endless possibilities of French verbs, stunning myself by what I remember of their nuances, by what I might say.

I want in not a small way to find him nice, to find him sane, to enjoy this conversation.  I am thinking of room #504, a room with a tub first and foremost, a room with plush towels and space, turned down sheets on a king size bed, peace that I am feeling an increasingly desire to disturb as he so cleverly claims to see something in my eye. I know what he is doing, let him do it. He is so close that I can feel his hot breath on my neck, his brown eyes close to mine, his skin sizzling, about to ignite.

I tell him I can stay for only an hour.

He is already asking me if I am free on Thursday.

The desire becomes overwhelming. He is from Lille, and I have never been there. I am from here, no, not originally I answer… I have been all sorts of places, but he wants to hear my stories of Chevrolets and shooting beer cans off of fence posts. These are words I never learned. We switch into English, and now he is the bold one.

I think briefly about regret: regret at my own voyaging life that ended abruptly. Years slipped by… not wasted years, but a path I never expected, and the turns away from some things I loved. I want him, want his adventures and his stories, want to hear him beg me for a fuck in French. I am laughing younger now as we switch back to his language, tease, talk about life, about books, about all the things I can never say in English. I wonder if it is not the language itself that now is seducing me as much as he is.

I turn to leave, and he walks with me toward the entrance. In room #504, Jean-Paul would undress me slowly. He would talk as we slow the moments, delicious, his kisses covering my clothing, each inch of skin bare, bared. Hours and hours. He walks near me, his steps dangerously close to my sharp heels. He stops me by the elevators.

“Pour toi,” he pulls out the chocolate from his pillow. “Un treat.”

He unwraps the chocolate, dark and silky, and puts it into my mouth, then kisses me, first soft, then fiercely, his hands combing my hair, pulling it. I plant my hands on the wall behind me, I am so dizzy. His tongue swirls through my mouth, sweet darkness, his coarse face scratching, agonizing, enticing.

A jeudi, alors? I pull away, wet and flustered. Yes, Thursday. Thursday. Perhaps.

message 1

Since my hasty retreat to the backwoods, I had found myself slipping into a routine–or more, a ritual that focused on my own survival here in this unfamiliar world, and after a time, an appreciation of the time I had to work on my own projects. It was what sustained me through those lonely early months of what I first considered a sort of imprisonment, despite the natural beauty of the place I now called home.

I am off the grid, as they say, and the cool mornings even as I arrived in the summer prompted me to begin my day by lighting the fire in the old stove. I had used one like this during my years in the north country, and always hated the mess of the ashes all over the kitchen floor. But here, this was my only chance for daily caffeine, and I was thankful for the fix, even now. And the cleaning was no longer such a burden without the rush to get out the door that had plagued me when I could still remain in urban settings unnoticed. I soon found that my daily routine now would revolve around care of the garden, then of the harvest and other winter preparations, laundry, lettering, and cooking.

Calligraphy seemed a necessity now as words and images came into my head, compelling me to give them shape and substance, to set them free.  Cooking, on the other hand, was one of the sole pleasures I could award myself now without music. It was a celebration of all that was still possible, even here alone in the woods, and it would remain my true source of happiness as the arsenal of staples remained in the pantry.

The cool mornings became longer, and I began lighting another stove some days, a procedure that varied in time, depending on the quality of the wood: the clean, dry pieces lit up like matches themselves, but the green wood, the damp wood required more patience, a quality that was necessary, if painful in the early stages of development.

It seemed at first here that I waited for everything. I waited for Thursday, the day every week when I could follow the intricate map that I kept folded in my pocket at all times. The crease lines and smudged ink already made the paper look like a relic, and so I had painstakingly traced the trails onto thin paper that I glued into the front of my writing journal, in case I ever lost the original. In the weeks so far that I had made the trek, I wrote down details of landmarks, and then began to notice the week-to-week changes in the foliage, in the footprints I found on the trails, in the sky, and the weather. These were splendid moments I awaited now, as if I were meeting a lover, though what I found at my destination was so far from the encounters I used to know, so far from the human touch that I continue to crave.

I want to hear your voice. It is so quiet here, and I think I might die to hear the honey drip from your throat and into my ears. I have imagined this sweetness sometimes so much in my loneliness that I used to think I might go insane as I wondered if you ever doubted my feelings for you now months after my retreat. I have missed you. I have missed music. I have missed the comforting whir of a refrigerator, the technological clicks that I never noticed before. I have missed the ring of a telephone, the you’ve got mail, and I have missed my heart beating when I could look and see that it was you, you, looking for me.

The packages at the end of the trail contained all the necessities agreed upon before I disappeared, a few regular extravagances like the coffee, and every once in a while, a luxury that could bring me to tears: chocolate-covered orange peels, Irish butter packed in dry ice, fresh figs, the Chanel perfume I used to wear, French lingerie. These small items were the only indications I still had that you were anywhere in this world still beyond my own imagination, and yet each time I opened the sack to find items precious only to me, I could feel that rare warmth of desire, your scent throughout all of the contents. My load those days then was light as I hiked back up the hill, if only to fall into the featherbed and into the fantasy that other days I could not bear.

(to be continued)

new text message

Tim felt the familiar vibration and reached inside his pocket to stop the buzzing.

The conference room had no windows, and not quite enough room to fit the group–all men–who claimed their space confidently, scrutinizing the scribblings on a flip chart. It was another “status update”… one for a department working on projects related to Tim’s department, but not to anything he was doing. Mandatory face time on a Friday afternoon. No chance of ducking out at noon.

Four hours until vacation.

Liz was home packing. She had scheduled her time off beginning two days before Tim’s, partly to avoid arousing suspicion, partly out of what seemed an overwhelming desire to plot her fantasies with as much preparation as possible.

The nights leading up to this departure date, Liz described in lurid detail what she imagined for vacation: the sensation of hot sand against her chest, her knees digging in as Tim would kneel behind her, his hand on her back, then both hands pulling her hips back toward his as their movements would dig deeper to the cold, wet sand beneath. He dreamed of this, the gentle lull of the waves, the sun beating down as he would fuck her there, on some beach still warm but abandoned after Labor Day.

Liz was silent on the subject, however, when Tim asked her where they were going. They would be camping some of the time, and they were driving his pick-up. That much he knew, and in any event, he barely cared, cared only about the luxury of uninterrupted time with his new girlfriend. Tim leaned back and breathed. At least the hard part of the day was over.

In spite of Liz’s reticence about the trip itself, she had been texting Tim throughout the morning.

“Tim, do you have a flashlight you can pack? THX xo Liz”

“Tim, don’t forget: TWO swimsuits! xxLiz”

“We can have dinner before we leave town.”

The stream of information arrived steadily as Tim finished the proposal, the culmination of weeks of work, due today at noon.

Liz sent details, difficult to avoid, though totally unnecessary. Tim watched the texts carefully at first, anticipating the promise of Liz’s lusty imagination on his cell phone screen. No. Just details. About packing. He answered the first three texts immediately:
“Sure, will do x Tim”

“Already packed. See you soon, Tim”

“Sounds great. See you after work!”

When the fourth alert came minutes later, Tim sighed, looked down: “NEW TEXT MESSAGE”. He turned the phone to vibrate and set it on the table behind him.

Uninterrupted, Tim put the finishing touches on his work, and delivered the proposal to his supervisor. He hurried down the hall to grab the slice of greasy cheese pizza offered at Friday afternoon meetings, stale apologies for a stolen lunch hour. Tim yawned and found a seat near the door.

The others started to file in, men Tim knew from the gym, from lunch, from their attendance at his own department’s status reports…

“Hey Tim, we hear you’re off on vacation! Where are you going?”

“Tim, great to see you here. Are you going to pitch for us when you come back?”

He chatted, anxious to distract himself enough to sit for the rest of the day. A nice enough group of guys, Tim thought as they talked, though he knew so few people even now since he moved east. Two years, and the city was fun, but still not quite home. Maybe this is what happens, Tim pondered, when you stay too long in the place where you grew up. He spent his entire youth trying to plan his escape from Iowa, only to leave and discover that he was a Midwesterner still.

Joe, Tim’s supervisor, nodded as he walked past–twenty minutes late–and took a seat near the front of the room. The meeting finally began.

Tim thought about Liz.

He had met her the day he began working in this office almost two years ago. She worked in human resources, and he remembered her curly red hair pulled back from her face, her gauzy polka dot blouse gaping open enough to reveal an edge of lace curving against her white skin. She handed him a stack of papers–insurance plans, short-term disability, words words–and he was there, in the panting flurry of a new job, a new life, the hint of her breasts distracting him from the details she explained clearly, he did not doubt, though all he remembered about them was the sound of her voice. He returned the forms to her the next day, lingering long enough to ask her to lunch.

She said no.

Tim saw her once more about six months later, in the hall outside his office. She caught his glance, then turned quickly to hide the tears running down her face as she left the corner office. He watched, saw Joe walk out and slam the door shut a few minutes later.

There was chatter about the outburst, of course, but no one had known about Joe and Liz, or what had happened between them. Days later, Joe seemed unchanged, laughing and throwing darts as he sipped his beer, flirting with the waitress exactly as he did every Thursday after work. And Tim never saw Liz again until this past spring–open enrollment. Dental insurance. She took in the required paperwork and smiled at Tim. Her nipples hardened beneath pale pink angora, and he asked her out to dinner. She said yes.

That night, Tim ran his finger gently along Liz’s ivory arm, up to the short sleeve of her sweater. He put his hand on her shoulder, and pushed the red curls from her neck, then kissed her gently, his cock hardening as she kissed him back, blushing, her nipples beneath the softness hard once more.

The rules were clear: no contact at work. No talking, only texts. And avoid the bar down the street.

The cell phone vibrated once more. Joe glared back at Tim. It was one o’clock.

Tim reached into his pocket:

3 NEW TEXT MESSAGES

He looked quickly, opened the first:

“I put gas in the truck!”

Oh.. good. More of these. Tim knew that Liz was excited, but the time she sent it… eleven o’clock! She knew! She knew he would be working, trying to finish.. But still. A twinge of guilt ran through him for not answering. He looked at the next:

“DAISIES!?? Oh Tim, how romantic! I love them XXXX Liz!!”

Flowers? Tim was perplexed, thinking first of what occasion he might have missed. The trip? Yes, but they would go bad then, and she would have them for nothing. He should have answered her before the meeting. Should have seen this.

Flowers? Tim pushed the phone back into his pocket.  If not from him, then, from whom?

Tim was romantic. Only he liked to show it in practical ways.. making Liz her lunch when she stayed overnight with him, changing the wiper blades on her car. She appreciated this, he knew, and he felt he could always do those things, always make her life a little better in small ways because he adored her already. He felt his dull days brighten, just knowing she was upstairs, just knowing that he would leave and sometimes see her pull out of the parking lot near him, that they would meet somewhere minutes later. She texted him most days, told her about her indiscretions, her lack of panties, and he answered her, promising fingers and tongues plunging into her wet crevices. She told him about the way other men looked at her as she leaned over, pointing out the way to fill out the W-2 forms. She told him about her garters, her heels, her own fingers creeping beneath her panties, when she wore them, as she lingered in the women’s room after lunch. She told him she dreamed of him locking the door to her office and pounding his steel cock into her hole as he pushed her face down into her desk, the papers floating to the ground, and her utter incapacity to retrieve them as he held her hands locked behind her back, as he used her slick cunt in his moments of vicious lust.

Flowers. Tim grabbed the phone and opened it again.

“Tim, my panties are drenching. I wish your fingers were where mine are now.” One o’clock. She was drenching at one o’clock

Tim’s cock hardened as he thought of Liz’s panties, wisps of lace, precious in price, evidently for the artistry, the way they drew lines on her skin, embellishing the curves beneath, covering her if only so that he could uncover her.

Joe stood, “I am afraid I have to be at another meeting in a few minutes.” He turned quickly and walked back, planted his hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“Good work helping with that proposal, Tim. See you after next week.”

Tim reddened, hoping that Joe did not notice his excitement, his lack of response to the gesture. He glanced again at the clock. Another two hours until he could get to Liz, until he could run his hand along the side of her thigh, feel her press against him, his hands lifting the wet lace and teasing her, but only for a short time before slipping the panties off and gliding into her. His cock pressed against his pants as the phone vibrated again. He leaned forward, flipped it open

“Come over now! I want you so much.. xoxo Liz”  Two o’clock. She had waited a whole hour to send again. It really was not so much, even if he was busy. He wanted to text back, but saw his colleagues next to him. Impossible to do it discreetly.

Tim needed her now, too. So long to wait, it seemed now… and the messages sat there. Liz would never wait so long for her release. She never could resist the urge to let her own fingers circle her clit. She would pull the purple dildo from her nightstand after a while, push it between her plump labia, her whole body tensing, pausing as she instinctively aimed for her favorite spots, over and over again, just short of climax, then pushing past it. He imagined her head pressed hard against the pillow as she came, her cries loudly calling out his name.

Bzzzz

“Where ARE you!? LIZ!”

Oh.. if only. Two-thirty. She made it longer than he had imagined…

Three o’clock. Another buzz.

“Oh Joe, can’t wait!”

Joe! She called him Joe. Another hour, and she had called him Joe.

Tim’s chest pounded. His gut ached. He knew it was a mistake, knew she meant Tim. But in the power of her lust, she was texting his name. Joe.

But he wondered. Joe had left a full hour ago. It was three o’clock. The meeting ended early, and Tim exited quickly, rushed into a storage closet and scrolled down to find her name, pressed send, then waited for her to pick up. Ring. Ring.

“Tim?”

“Yes, Liz! It’s me. I.. I can leave now. I’ll be there in twenty min…”

“Tim.”

“Yes! I ‘m sorry I didn’t answer the texts. I was finishing the proposal, then had to go to the meeting.”

“Tim, it’s fine. It’s just…”

“Okay Liz. Be there in just a few minutes. I just have to check my email and close up. Then we can leave. I love you.”

“Oh Tim.. Okay. Goodbye.”

Tim opened his mailbox.

From: The Big Cheese (ooh. Boss with a sense of humor) To: Joe Cc: LIST

Joe, great proposal. Congratulations on all the hard work. You definitely earned a great vacation.

From: Joe  To: Tim

Great work, Tim. Thanks for the team effort. I hope you have a great break. Hey, I never mentioned this, but the wife and I separated for awhile. I think I convinced her to try it again, so we’re going away for the week. Amazing what a bunch of cheap flowers on your anniversary can do.

From: Liz  To: Tim

Tim. Why didn’t you answer? I found the flowers, thought they were from you. But then…

I am so sorry. He loves me, Tim. It was good, Tim. I hope you understand. I love you.

Tim blinked at the screen. No one knew they were married? Buy why? Why was it a secret? And why did she accept Tim’s invitation for dinner, much less want him to be her boyfriend, to go away with him? Did Joe know? Why? For everything, why?

Tim grabbed his jacket and walked out of his office. He headed down the stairs, walked down the street toward Liz’s apartment. In a few minutes he would see his red pickup parked on the street outside. He would take the keys from her silently as she cried and explained, and he would start the old thing, then wrap his right hand around the bench seat, looking back through the center for other cars. He would stop, then shift, three on the tree, and pull forward, driving all night if he had to, driving on, to the next best thing.

e[lust] #28

Photo courtesy of Delilah

Welcome to e[lust] – Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #29 (Which will be in September, taking a short summer break)? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed and Twitter for updates and submission reminders.

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

What makes me a woman? – It’s a stumper, this question. There must be something that makes me a woman. Something more than how I am perceived by others as I walk down the street. But what is the answer?

Baggage: An Inventory – Everyone brings bags with them. My goal is to carry my own bags. I’ll let people help me shed them, but I will never let them carry them. Those bags are my own to, well, own.

There’s pain and then there’s pain (and then there’s pain) –Part of what I crave in the second type of pain is the selfish sadism of the partner who continues despite my pleas. He does it because it arouses him, and he does it because I’ll endure it for him.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

What Is Gender? – Playing with dolls and preferring the color pink doesn’t make you a girl anymore than chewing on a bone makes you my dog.

~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly ~

Sex Toys: Single or Partnered, there is no shame in owning them – There’s no fucking shame in owning your sexuality, in taking control of your own damn orgasm. Can you PREFER human contact and partnered sex to sex toys? Sure. You can prefer whatever the fuck you want. But don’t insinuate to me that owning a lot of sex toys is somehow bad or shameful.

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!

New Blogger Education Posts

Blog Design 101: Balancing Personal Style vs Readability
A Cautionary Word on Joining Affiliate Programs

Kink & Fetish

BDSM Day, an international recognition
BDSM Advice Series: Bondage Tape
Being a Brat Can Hurt
Caning, energy and romance
Screw roses! I enjoy playing with Thorns…
Working Girl

Erotic Writing

A Trip to the Toy Store
Can I get into your knickers now?
Coffee Break
early afternoon
Elevator Shaft
Fogged-up Windows
Fucking Eli
FWB
I’ll see you tonight…
One on One
Open By Night
Rock Out With My Cock Out
Renewed Interest
Twenty/Fifty-Three
that little fucking game changer [part I]
the weekend away – Sunday

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Death By Bondage
Hypocrite, PA-Rant!
kink labels….is there a place for me? (or someday my kink will come)
Things I Looove Thursday

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Ask PolyAnna: Multiple partners?? Safer sex??
Are My Nipples Getting The Correct Signals?
Evolution
More Pussy Pride – The Perfect Vagina
My Take On Masculinity
Rambling Harlot: On Internet Dating and Shyness
Sex and Catholic Schools
Sex And Disability: Starting the Dialogues

early afternoon

I sense your excitement in the way your skin smells, the scent of your sweat and secretions, my own excitement all the more evident, as I wait. I am wet, as I always am, responding like an animal needing you when I know you need me. You say you want to take me to bed, and you do. I want you, too, not aware of how, what I want from you there, but you always wash up over me, overtake me, transform me, my element, my lust lights and catches flame. This time you have dropped your shorts onto the floor, your shirt now over your head, as you nudge me back onto the bed and reach up under my skirt to pull off my panties, toss the wet lace aside as you push my legs swiftly open, your face quickly buried in my mound, my full skirt pushed up and falling upon your head, quite a sight as I look down and see you there for as long as I can look, as long as your tongue has not yet teased me to the point that my head falls back, to the point that I lose myself, let you have me. You have me now, have me fully under your spell, under my own spell, under the spell of this lust and sweat and the power of it all. Lick me. I love it when you devour me, when you wear my cunt like a mask, taking it all in, all the sweet fucking lust you suck from deep within me. Do this. Do this until I can no longer stand to let you bring me countless times to the brink of climax, until I take your head in my hands and push you away, turn you over and climb on top of you, my hips straddling your face now as I try not to succumb to the violent urge to grind into you as you push my labia apart and bury your tongue deeper still, as I take the full length of your cock into my own greedy mouth. Oh, you are delicious as my mouth surrounds you, as I feel you throb deep in my throat, my own attention diverted as you push me back enough to suck hard on my clit, your finger wet and tempting my ass, then plunging in as I have now pushed my finger into you. I feel you sigh, and groan. I sigh, and groan. It is a frustration, a temptation, a game to excite you and let you excite me, but at last impossible to have your cock deep in my throat and not want it buried now in my cunt, my hot wanting cunt.

It is early now, so fuck me. Fuck me now, let me have you, have this, have all the come that you have saved in moments of mindless afternoon lust, in moments when you could not have me. Fill me with this, let me ride you, let me come. Then rest, my sweet, in all the sweetness of the afternoon, in the warm sun, in the laziness of Saturday and summer. Sleep, for now, then come back, come back soon.