Blah Blah, end of year post, Blah

It feels disingenuous to write an end of year post highlighting the authors and creators I have enjoyed this year – as when those people have become friends, confidantes and so much more over the past 12 months, it looks cliquey and insular.

But the majority of these friendships were borne through our writing – mutual interests and taste similarities. Looking at one whose work emulates everything you wish to be, or writes about engagements that had never crossed your mind, or even actively repulsed you until you took the time to read about the subject and suddenly your horizons were widened and the world looked like a much different, slightly more magical place.

So I am unashamedly a fan of the work of so many people I think I am allowed to call my friends – some of whom I am certainly afraid to ask for confirmation in case they look at me askance – which has largely facilitated our friendships/’friendships’.

Anyway, here is my year roundup, faves, whatevers:

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She cooks. This morning – Christmas Eve Eve –  I woke up to find her side of the bed empty and generic Christmas spice scent wafting through the door.

I padded naked to the kitchen and found her at the hob, stirring her pot of festive cheer, also naked but for an oversized apron, her pinchable bum and smooth terracotta skin of her back. George Michael was nursing his broken heart through song on the radio.

“I’m making mincemeat.” she said without turning around.

“And why is that?” I carefully put my hand on the small of her back. 

She set the spoon down and tested her hip against the counter top. 

“I woke up with a craving. I needed mince pies.”

“The Co Op opens at ten.” 

“I’ve been up since six. I needed to feel useful. Create. Get my hands dirty. Pastry’s chilling in the fridge. So rich and buttery.” 

Finally she turned her chin to face me, her short black hair pushed back with a length of shiny red Christmas ribbon. Her smile was as deep and breathtaking as the ocean at sunset. 

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, running her nail over the duct of my nipple. 

“Not yet.” 

“You can help me by rolling out the pastry then.”

I wanted to kiss her but instead I opened the fridge and navigated the pots of cream and packets of salmon and cured meats. She’d cleared a space on the work surface next to her, and ceased her stirring once more to watch me apply the rolling pin. I knew she was admiring the flexion of my arm muscles.

“Don’t lean over too far, you’ll get your tits covered in flour.”

“They’re clean!” I retorted, slicing circles and placing them in the baking tray. “And don’t be stingy with the filling. Tis the season after all.”

Mindful of the potentially dangerous temperature of the mincemeat, I stepped carefully out of her way as she filled the cases, covered them with little pastry hats and slid the tray into the oven.

“20 minutes, says Delia.” she commented, setting the timer and gazing slowly, deliberately at me as she undid her apron. “Lie down.”

“Where?” 

“Here. Now. Twenty minutes. Nineteen minutes. Lie down.”

She knew the floor tiles were icy. She knew how uncomfortable it would make me.

I lay down on the floor, sprinkled with plain flour and cinnamon. 

I welcome Winter

My body in winter is so much more than the sum of its summer parts.

In winter, the exposure of my body is not a necessity. It is a desire. An aching, disturbing need.

All summer long we remove layers like so many sheaves of paper from an untidy stack, relishing each moment of cool reprieve before the endless swirling heat of even the most British summers returns. I loathe it. The constant film of sweat on skin, seeping into my hair and clothes and making me wretched.

Winter is the shivering pleasure I cannot wait for.

On misty workday mornings, I glance down at myself approvingly. My coat is thick and a scarf is wound about my neck, but here, between the coiling wool and the shiny brass buttons, is a thick wedge of my own chubby décolletage, a display of sensual flesh for any casual observer to enjoy, and for me to take sinful pride in.

I wear my flimsiest bra, anticipating the moment the chill northern winds permeate the many many layers of clothes I am wrapped in, and my nipples stand to attention, desperate for visibility.

I enjoy the feel of them, their painful stiffness when the temperature drops. The way their colour shifts from milky coffee to a deeper, almost reddish brown as the skin contracts and the texture shifts from soft and meek to stern and unforgiving

I lie on my winter bed, refusing to relinquish my summer sheets – revelling in my goose flesh skin, the persistent teasing lick of the icy breeze on my inner thighs and cunt.

If the summer is my tiring, consuming job of work, the winter is my lover, for whom I wait in eager, panting anticipation, and give myself to them when December arrives.

More Kink of the Week below!

Elust 101

Welcome to Elust 101

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #102 Start with the rules, come back January 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Email from my ex-boy

Geography

Two’s Company, Three’s A Crowd

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Why should we call ourselves sinners?
Repeated Patterns

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Fuck Yourself

 

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
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!

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Four acts in Oral fluids

I

It might have been our second date (my place, light bondage, showing off, Chinese food). I was straddling his waist.
He might have said “If I asked you to, would you spit in my mouth?”
I shook my head no. That was too Uber-Domme for me. Too far beyond the kink persona I was still moulding for myself.
He accepted this and we went back to inflicting pain on his nipples.

II

He makes me spit on his cock. Every time I make a direct hit, the moan that escapes him makes me melt.

III

He makes me spit on his cock.
He makes me spit on his outstretched palm.
I look up into his face in adoration as he wipes the mess from my forehead down to my mouth.
I say thank you.

IV

It might have been near the end (the best sex, the sweetest confessions, the unbreakable love)
I was straddling his waist.
He looks so vulnerable, so sweet with his sorrowful green eyes and breath caught as he watches me.
“Open your mouth.” I say gently.

Taking Liberties (I)

Erotic romance was how I started. This is definitely a slow burn. An actual story for once, but it is a departure from what I have posted to my blog so far so may take some adjusting.

Many years after the fact, I learnt he had finely orchestrated our first meeting. Sat beside one another at a dull talk on moral responsibility, he put his hand on my thigh. I slapped it away. He was thoughtful, and when the room grew rowdy once more he placed the hand higher upon my thigh. This time, when I made to swat the hand away again, he caught my fingers in his and held them fast, delicately stroking the palm.

Afterwards the speaker announced that they would be serving us tea and fruitcake in the ante room. I broke free of his grasp, and had been speaking with Lydia’s sister, when he approached me at the samovar and said,

“I do hope you didn’t think me forward.”

Always that impertinent grin about his mouth. His blonde-toned hair oiled but waved towards his brow. Eleven months and two inches between us.
“I do think you forward.”

“Oh dear, that wasn’t my intention.”
He stroked his hand along the length of my index finger, I looked about us and tempered my voice.

“You manhandled me.”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Your hand was placed upon my thigh where it had no place being. How could I possibly misunderstand that?”
His large, child-like blue eyes registered my scandalous words with some amusement.

“I was gripped, gripped by Professor Bradley’s rousing speech, of course. Had your thigh been that of the good professor himself, or even my dear, departed mother, my reaction would have been much the same.”
His speech was firm and measured. He looked me in the eye carefully. It could almost have been true.

“I can see you don’t believe me. Perhaps I could take you to dinner and explain in a more detailed fashion?”

“If I refuse, would you persist in harassing me?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He shrugged, turning to the samovar himself for his own refreshment.

He was infuriating.

I went to dinner.

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Switch

So, the two protagonists from Meet Me There were not contained to that tale alone. I think this is from earlier on in their story. Enjoy.

***

Looking back, it all started to go a bit weird when we decided to buy a strap-on.

I met her in Tesco’s. Of course, where else? Where do people usually meet perfect whirlwinds of women who paw at you incessantly and make you glow? Lidl?

I was fingering a stalk of broccoli. Deciding; was I feeling virtuous enough to eat green things, or was I going to get chips on the way home? She was hiding behind a stack of Easter eggs, pretending to be a bunny. As you do. She did look slightly ashamed when she noticed me staring at her. She was wearing shorts, even though it had been snowing all day.

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In Summer

Is it exhibitionism in your own back garden? In your own space, technically away from the prying eyes of the neighbours but if they happened to hear the scuffle, a moan that escapes a fraction louder than intended, or glance from their bedroom window as his hand moves lower….. What then?

Less than a week is nothing. It’s no time at all to be apart. It’s especially nothing when you don’t stop your steady trickle of conversation and lewd photography. The usual morning sweethearts and goodnight my loves had carried on as normal, even though he was in another country, and on a minimal time difference. Still, I ran into his arms when I got off the bus and stood on my tiptoes gripping him tightly in the middle of the pavement, not wanting to let him go. Turns out a week might be too long, regardless.

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