On Dick Pics

It’s not for everybody, I know. Some people just don’t need or want to see your bits and pieces other than when you’re getting down to business, and some people don’t want their junk committed to the memory of their Samsung Galaxy.
Some girls like to be sent photos of your cock – and they will always let you know if this is the case.

This isn’t a cry to start taking arty shots if either person in a sex-based situation isn’t entirely up for it. You do you.

There is a belief amongst some people that if a woman expresses a positive interest in sex (even if that sex explicitly does not involve a penis), there are men who are sure that what these women really want is cock; they remember that they have a cock, and they pass on badly-taken photographs of that cock, patting themselves on the back because they have ‘cracked what women want’.

These men are incredulous when we are disgusted, when we ask them what the fuck they’re playing at.

Conversely you can be the quietest, modestest, bible-studying femme on Twitter and still some arsehole will show you his junk because…. Oh I dunno, they think their penis is the one true cock to turn you into the rampant erotomachine you were born to be?

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Scenes of an Adult Nature

I wrote this a couple of years ago, but after reading Isabelle’s post on sex and violence, I thought I’d stick it up on my blog too. It was originally a facebook note, and written before I started blogging in earnest.
Rant.
In the last week, whilst I have been trying to increase/streamline/provide evidence of my web presence as a writer, I started worrying. Yes, the book we do not speak of has made erotica – and specifically BDSM flavoured erotica – more culturally acceptable as a genre, up to a point. We read these books in public and no one bats an eyelid, even though most of them know someone is getting something eye-smartingly painful done to them within those pages at any given time. And yet, when I link my extracts of works in progress, I feel resistance within myself. For this is dirty work, in anyone’s language. This is wet and sticky and I am very proud of my words, but there is still that kernel of doubt that I am going too far.

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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!

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.

A letter to Myself

Four weeks ago my world imploded as my M decided he could not continue to be with me, after some familial intrusion into our personal lives that some of you will be aware of.
Ten days later, nursing my poor, shredded heart, I wrote this letter to myself.
I have since reread it twice, and though it still makes me weep, it also calms me enough to press on.

Some minor things have been changed, names omitted (the copy I have in my file uses my real name), but other than that, it’s as it was then.

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Muse

Let me tell you about my muse, unintentional fueller of my fantasies.
I do not think of him and feel my mind begin to wander to delicious places.
I do not hear his name and immediately find myself transformed, come pooling beneath me, my knickers sodden as I picture his assaults on my body.
I prostrate myself at the altar of his knowledge, of his words which cut so quickly to the sordid beauty in everything.
And he arouses my skill like no other.
Despite never having laid a finger on me.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that his words inspire my own and I am forever grateful that I am gifted his time, his light.

***

Let me tell you about my muse, her sweetness and her darkness.
I think of her in a hundred ways and every one fits comfortably, completely together.
I see her body and give thanks for it, remembering the one occasion I allowed my dormant dominant side to flourish and turned her arse a healthy pink.
I marvel at the chaste beauty of her body, at the endless, nurturing power of her love, of her freeness and ease with her world.
She makes my words burn with untold feelings;
In the year since first I touched her.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that her existence inspires my own, and I am forever grateful that I am gifted her time, her light.

More Wicked Wednesday stories below!
Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The past is another country (with better spelling)

I have a lovely and caring boyfriend who often brings thoughtful and charming gifts – a bunch of flowers in my favourite colour, chocolates that bear an uncanny resemblence to his chosen pet name for me, every brand of throat sweet when I came down with tonsillitis two months into our relationship…. He’s pretty wonderful.
Not long after we’d started seeing each other, he was going away on a business trip, involving an internal flight.

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