Bad Girl.

"Have you been a bad girl?

Do you need punishing?"

Your only words to me.

I have, you know it and I want you to punish me.

I want spanking and im almost blushing at the thought.

You can see it, you know Iwant it but you want to tease me...

"Tell me how bad you've been"

But I dont want to tell you, I cant tell you, its too much for me.

I want to show you, to bare my sin to you, in all its glory.

I bend over infront of you, my skirt riding up over my smooth cheeks.

Im not wearing anything underneath, but you dont know that.

I stand up and turn round, running my hands down the front of my skirt, finding my lips parted and swollen.

My fingers stroking over the wetness up to my clit, it throbs to my touch.

I look back at you as I catch my breath.

Your eyes focused on my hands move back up to my face, and fill with need.

I want you to take me now, but I know your enjoying the show.

My scent fills the air, the smell of sex, of moistness, and I know you can smell it too.

And still you dont move, or say anything.

Your going to let me put on my show for you, to show you how bad a girl I've been.

And then your going to punish me.

oh god, are you going to punish me!

Once upon a time.

I liked the stubble on his cheeks and head, and his eyes behind the glasses watching me, waiting for something, sparkling only rarely, breaking through the fog.

He lies on the bed so still it is like he is afraid to move, talking, talking, as I inch up the bed toward him. I rest my head on his chest, his arms, the only muscled thing about him, sliding around me. And when he finally turns his head to kiss me I whisper, "What took you so long?"

He laughs that nervous laugh and whispers, "What took you so long?"

I feel like I've been waiting for this for years, for the feel of his mouth on mine, like melting. He kisses like I always wanted to be kissed and so rarely was, with his whole body yet not smothering me.

Like he's thought about it. And I hope he has. His hands on my face and suddenly I don't feel anything that's changed, any of the mistrust and fear and the extra pounds and spots on my skin. Nothing has changed in these moments between us, where we fit together like we've been doing this much longer. So many more times than the three.

He whispers something but I want to hear him say it out loud. He denies me his voice so much, makes me read the words he has more confidence in that way.

"Please," he whispers, roughly.

And I do what he wants because I want it too, want to taste him, want everything at once. And I love the taste of him, the feel, the little silent laugh I get inside when I know at this moment how completely he's mine.

It's the only moment that he's mine.

He pulls me up almost roughly to kiss me again, taste himself on my lips. Then he throws me down, buries his face in my cunt like he's been dreaming about it. And his talented tongue keeps me on the edge, breathing ragged, hands sliding over my own skin and reaching for his head, for the stubble rough, sharp.

When I finally pull him up to me and he slides inside me I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out, from saying something I can't say to him. I shiver like it hurts but it feels so good--I want to bite, scratch, claw at him but kiss him softly, keep him close.

On top of him, I rock back, grip his thighs, force myself to move, thrust grind until I'm there...yes...there.

But not done, no, not done, even though I collapse on his chest and those arms pull me close.

We roll over and he's on top of me and whispering in my ear "I don't want to come yet" and I don't want him to either, don't want this to stop. I feel like one raw nerve, can feel each tiny movement. Our eyes meet, my eyes wide, and I beg him no, don't stop, you feel so good and the point that matters there is the you...you...you.

And I know that when it stops he'll be scared to be too close to me, or maybe he only wants me when we're this deep in each other and when we're not he doesn't care.

When he finally comes I don't want to let go. I hold on as tight as I can, and I hear his rough voice say "That was amazing" but he's already moving away, and my answering "yes" and my giggles that come without warning when my skin is flushed like this. I hear it like I'm not the one doing it, because as soon as we're done I know he's not mine, not mine, never will be.

And I wonder how he can not know how I feel about him, wonder how he doesn't see right through me. Does he, after all, see through me and just pretend he doesn't?

He puts his shirt back on like he needs a layer between us now. Falls asleep with his back to me, and leaves me tracing patterns on his t-shirt instead of sleeping. But when he thinks I'm asleep I catch him open his eyes to look at me.

Victory

Tuesday night. Clutching a beer in a cold room, still wrapped in my jacket, anxiously holding hands with friends and staring at the news projected on the wall.

I've been up since 4:30 and I'm tired and sore and drinking to steady my nerves as we wait, we all wait, wondering...

And then it flashes on the screen, and we're crying. Almost everyone. I'm choking back sobs and looking around and then I see him looking at me.

We've only spoken once or twice, but everyone's hugging around me so I use the excuse to fall into his arms, against his tall, lean body, and let him hold me.

"We did it," I say.

"Yes," he replies.

I let him go and glance over my shoulder at the doorway to the upstairs offices. I move away and walk in that direction, not sure if he's going to follow.

Footsteps echo behind me, but I don't look back. I hear the door close, and then I turn around. We're both smiling like idiots, and I step toward him, pressing myself against him. Our lips meet and it's electric, delicious, earnest and just a bit messy. Like high school when your mother might walk in at any moment.

I want to feel what's under that big sweatshirt, but I slide my hands up and rake them through his hair instead, and he slides his hands under my coat, fumbles with the edge of my shirt, raking it upward. His hands are cold but my shivers aren't just from the temperature.

He presses my back up against the door and I run my hands down to the waist of his jeans. He's hard already and I fumble with his belt.

His lips find that spot at the base of my neck that melts me every time. This young boy's got good instincts. I purr against him. His fingers are warmer as they slide below the waistband of my skirt.

"Is this a cliche?" I laugh softly.

"Do you care?"

"No," I whisper and finally get his jeans unbuttoned.

His hands shove my skirt up and push my panties out of the way and he slides inside of me, smooth and perfect. We're going to be missed by the fiftysomething people just on the other side of the door, but all I feel for the moment is his body against mine and twin waves of jubilation and pleasure riding up my spine.

My legs tighten around his waist and I gasp softly, shuddering, and bury my moans against his neck, digging my teeth in.

His voice breaks as he comes, a soft noise that makes me smile.

For a second we hold each other steady, then he lets me down and we shrug our clothes back into place, smiling, flushed. I go to open the door and he pulls me back for a second, kissing me again. He tastes saltysweet.

I step out the door first and into the room, and he waits behind me.

"Where'd you go?" a friend asks me.

"I just needed a second alone," I reply, still smiling.

(just a fantasy)

How to piss me off...

Do you know what im sick of today,
Do you want to know what really annoys me....

Its people asking me "when are you going to find a nice boy and settle down?"
Why do they feel the need to ask me?

I suppose its that they've now found "the one" or someone who these deluded girls think resembles the man they want to spend their life with!

But why does it matter to them that im single?
Why are they not comfortable in themselves to be on their own?

Why are the projecting that onto me?
Are they not strong enough that they have to be the whole to someone's half?
Does it make them feel better, the pity they have for me that im alone?
Does it reflect the pity away from themselves?

And WHY on earth would they worry themselves with the type of man I want?
Why is it always nice boys that your meant to meet?
I dont want a nice boy - I could have married 100 nice boys i've met along the way!
All who were perfectly suitable to settle down with, but who would bore me within seconds.

I want a man full of passion, lust and wild things.

I want darkness and pain and a soul to match my longings.

Forgive me, but how many nice boys have you met who are full of these things?
I may play with the nice boys occassionally, but i dont marry them.
I dont keep them, I cant.
I spit them up and chew them out, I cant help it - its just my way.
My character is too strong to yield to a nice boy.
I want a match for me, a challenge.....

I haven't forgotten you

We've been sadly, sadly neglecting you, I know. I wish I could tell you that it's been because I've been busy with fabulous adventures but sadly, that's not the case. It's been work, work, and more work, and in between there's this little election going on in the U.S.

Still, I have time to think about things for you.

I didn't dress up this Halloween, but many many times in the past I've laced myself into a corset, put on a wig, amped up the makeup and transformed myself into someone else for display, for your amusement and viewing pleasure. I've been an angel, a devil, a pirate queen and several comic book characters.

I dream delicious mixed-costume fantasies, my pirate meeting a space cowboy, zombie makeup mingling with my glitter lipstick, down a dark New Orleans alley on our third night of costumed revelry. Pretending we each don't know who the other is.

I want to wake up with bits of my costume strewn across the floor, makeup smudges and round ringed bruises and the last bits of the night's drinking clouding our heads, and feed each other candy to chase away the hangover.

But instead I am haunted not by ghosts but by memories of holidays past spent in the arms of various loves. I can taste them now as much as I can the sugar sweetness of the chocolates I sublimate desires with. Skin of one, thinly coated with sweat, mouth of another, flavored with beer and something slightly tangy, and the seed of yet another, that bitter salty flavor slightly different each time.

They all wore costumes, not just for Halloween, but every day. Put themselves together an identity from bits and pieces lying around, a scrap of rock star here, a piece of athlete there, sculpted bodies and personae to hide their hearts in.

When we dress up for Halloween, do we really just let out a piece of ourselves that we were keeping hidden?

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

Paul Newman is dead.

This video is from one of my favorite films: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Liz Taylor and Paul Newman are on fire, spitting such hatred at each other that you know it could only come from love gone horribly, horribly wrong.

You can't hate anyone like someone you still love. Indifference is simply impossible. Newman spent this whole movie feigning indifference, but the anger under the laconic surface was palpable--it breathed off the screen like the fumes from the liquor he consumed.

Liz Taylor was more than a match for him here, but still I love his portrait of a broken man. Newman was too beautiful--had he not excelled at playing damage, anger, and steel under it all, he'd have been Tom Cruise. But when he was matched against Cruise in The Color of Money he made the younger man look like nothing.

The Hustler may be my favorite Newman movie, my favorite portrayal of a downward spiral, an adrenaline junkie just one false move away from bottom, but this scene above was too close to my heart not to post.

And since I wrote just a few posts back about humbling myself, I had to use Maggie the Cat, not ashamed to beg for her man. Is Maggie really stronger than me, after all? Less afraid of pain?

Sweet sounds

My Irish boy.
With that sweet, sultry, voice .
Like honey and cigarettes, like danger on the wind.

My Irish boy.
Who spills pure filth from his mouth.
Pure, unadulterated smut , like liquid cocaine.
He wants to do everything I want, and more.
Who's desire for the unknown spurs me on into the blackness, into the spiralling abyss of my longings.

My Irish boy.
Who's voice can make my hairs stand on end and make my pussy moist in a second.
Who can make me forget even myself when he wants.
That voice, that could talk you into doing anything.
I swear it must be a gift from god.

Chosen

Look at you, all proud and manly, strutting almost.
Look what you've caught, your prize.
My gain.
You obviously think you can get your own way.
Just a small delicate female you can do exactly what you want to.
Do all those things you've fantasised about, without objection..............

Well your wrong.
Im in charge.
You do what I say, what I want.
This is about my pleasure not yours, unless I choose it to be.
Your head tells you to get up, to leave this room now.
Yet your body betrays you, is already excited at the thought of being dominated.
You realise this is exactly what you want, what you've always wanted.
I knew this about you, even before you did.
Its why I chose you.

Lines.

I've only ever humbled myself for one person.

I would have crawled on my hands and knees across broken glass for him. I begged him and cried for him and chased him and sent him letters years after he broke my heart. I loved him and offered him my heart raw and bleeding in my hands.

I won't do that anymore.

It's a strange thing to know at the same time as you feel like it will never stop hurting, that someday it will. That you can laugh even as you want to cry. To not even be able to give over completely to the sadness because you simply know that yes, this too shall pass.

When you look at me I see mirrored in your eyes our time together. I don't know if you think of conversations halfdrunk allserious or if you think of me naked pressed against you, of my lips, of the taste of me.

They are one and the same thing, really, anyway.

Doesn't matter if you never fuck me again, if I never feel you inside me and hear that little sigh and gasp when you come.

It doesn't matter if I never fucked you in the first place, so there's nothing there to regret.

We crossed a line way back when and we can't go back across it. We certainly can't pretend it didn't happen.

Everyone I've ever walked or skipped or leaped or dived across that line with, I can see it in their eyes. They remember the feel of me. Even if they only brushed my skin with one finger, then headed back the other direction out of fear or honor (who can say), they remember that feeling. They know.

And so I won't chase it, I won't ask for it, let alone beg for it. I know that this will pass.

And I'll go back to dreaming about the one that never did pass. The one who still comes to my dreams and I offer him, smiling, pieces of me. Another chunk to add to the parts he already owns.

After all, I can't ask someone else for what I don't have to give.

To answer your question

Sometimes when I make myself come I don't think about anything. My own skin is enough.

Sometimes I think of the past, of people I've loved and things we did, or things we didn't do. That's when I'm feeling sentimental.

It's not often.

More often, I picture whichever pretty thing has flittered across my imagination that day, whether it's someone real or some make-believe movie-star thing, or maybe even a story I make up in my head, a person that doesn't exist (but I'd like them to).

I believe in the heady rush of orgasm, the heat of skin on skin, the sweetness of kisses, the sharp sting of teeth on flesh. I believe in your hands sliding over the curve of my ass when you slip inside.

I believe in your voice in my ear, whispering ragged things both filthy and beautiful.

I believe in the difference between how it feels when I'm alone, shuddering silently, puncturing the air with only a soft gasp, and when I'm with someone, when it's breathtaking in its intensity, when I collapse against them, sweat dripping, breath quivering, body shaking, my cunt one raw nerve.

I don't know if I believe in God, but I believe in this.

And I believe in love.

And I believe in magic.

candy sweet

I've got a belly full of sweet things from today and a nice buzz left over from the night before. Candy and cookies and cupcakes and champagne, all tripping across my tongue instead of skin and sweat.

Sweet things and pretty things, flavors and sensations, bubbles going to my head and thoughts warming me.

Sublimating desires in treats and spoiling myself, licking my fingers and touching my skin, nostalgic for a time when kissing alone was good enough to thrill me for days and skin on skin contact brought a better high than any drug I ever tasted.

What do you want to ask me?

via 透き通った・・・

fuck you

Old bit of writing from February '08.

Fuck you for telling me you fancied me. Fuck you for ringing me all the time to say goodnight. Fuck you for being so kind and charming.

Fuck you for going from that to ignoring texts. Fuck you for hanging up on me cos your lass came in.

Fuck you for forgeting to pick me up that Friday after you promised and you knew how excited I was to see you. Fuck you for making me wish that I would die.

Fuck you for making me cry in the pub then sneaking out the back way without saying goodbye.

Fuck you for leaving me to go down to the river in the pitch black by myself so I could wash the mud off my knees after we'd been in the shelter.

Fuck you for never making me come.

Fuck you for looking at the scars on my wrist all the time.

Fuck you for using me for a shag. Fuck you for telling me that at the end.

Fuck you for stroking my hand and knee and face in the car back to your place. Fuck you for telling me you thought the world of me. Fuck you for kissing me really nicely.

Fuck you for barely looking at me after you shagged me. Fuck you for refusing to hold my hand in the car on the way back.

Fuck you for ringing me that night and telling me you'd made a mistake keeping me at a distance. Fuck you for telling me you wanted me, you wish I would feel for you what I felt for my best friends. Fuck you for telling me I had so much love to give. Fuck you for telling me how loyal and loving I am, fuck you for even thinking you deserved that, let alone asking for it. Fuck you for telling me everything would work out and we'd be so close and it would be so good.

Fuck you for ignoring me for a week after that phone call. Fuck you for ringing me and waking me up a week later and telling me you didn't want to see me again. Fuck you for saying there was no point in giving me your new number. Fuck you for warning me not to tell anyone in case your lass found out. Fuck you for cutting me off completely.

Fuck you for staring at my legs when we were watching the rugby. Fuck you for joining our table. Fuck you for barely stroking my back as you walked past. Fuck you for leaning your legs close to mine like you used to to see if I was in a mood with you. Fuck you for trying to get me by myself. Fuck you for not succeeding. Fuck you for not saying sorry.

And fuck you for looking so embarrassed when you saw me at nursery last week. Fuck you for not asking how I was. Fucking you for watching me the whole time I was holding the baby and letting her bite on my fingers because her teeth were hurting her. Fuck you for looking down my top when I was crouched down looking at a toy of one of the little ones. Fucking you for running past me after your son and shouting bye. Fuck you.

Fuck you.





(image-sex happy)

Lipstick traces

Lipstick kisses leave marks--you have to commit to it when you want to kiss away my lipstick, because everyone will know what you've been doing. Everyone will know from the color of your lips that you've been kissing me.

I leave red marks on your pale skin, and leave red round raised bite marks as well, that will turn purple before they fade away, reminding you each time you pull your shirt over your head: I was there. I tasted you.

I pushed you back against the wall and kissed you and we had to leave the bar because everyone would have know. Not that I minded, when we walked out the door arm in arm and your lips were still tinged red from mine.

We didn't make it to the bedroom.

The couch was good enough, right inside the door. I pushed you down and straddled your lap, sank my teeth into your shoulder and you reached up under my dress for my underwear, yanking them down so you could touch me, feel me, slip inside of me. I pulled your shirt over your head so I could feel your skin, pressed against it, rode you hard.

I can only come when I'm on top.

Right there, on the couch, my knees raw from the vintage velvet, my face red from the stubble on your face, I came harder than I ever had. Your hands on my hips, your mouth against my neck, your own teeth against that spot where my neck meets my shoulder. I was exhausted by the strength of my orgasm, so you had to move me for your own.

It doesn't take long.

You played with my sweaty hair, dyed red that time, and I ran my hands over your shaved head. I didn't have to worry about leaving marks or causing pain. You always liked my mouth, wherever I put it, and you liked me to be rough with you.

We had to wash the traces of each other off, afterward. Wash off the lipstick and sweat and smell of sex before curling into the giant bed on the white sheets.

No lipstick marks on the pillowcase when I wake up, but we have matching red rings on our shoulders.

Sugasm #146

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #147? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Nipple clamps, butt plug, Hitachi - oh my!
“Once the plug is in, I’m going to send you on a little walk.”

I discover transcendental orgasm
“It was peaceful, and like holding on to a live wire at the same time.”

When We Were Kids: Thoughts on BDSM
“The tying was always my favourite part, whether I was the one tied who had to escape, or the one who got to do the tying.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Like a Prayer - Part 2

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Image from Le Chagrin

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Bite Me
Chess
Lunch Date
On the phone
People we’ve always wanted to be
Submitting Again: Part 3
Top
Webcam
While it rains outside…
Your Gorgeous Polish Girlfriend does not feel like having sex tonight

Sex Work
The Age of Porn: Performers, Attraction, and Age
So there I was, with a caller…
The Whore in the House Next Door

NSFW pics
Dana by Goncharov (Met Art)
Fetish Model & PornSLUTkitty Gets Her Head Tattooed
A Fully Naked HHNT
Not a masochist

Sex News, Reviews, & Interviews
The Lelo Mia
Nea: by Lelo
Njoy’s Amazing Butt Plugs - A Sex Toy Review
Sex News Roundup

BDSM & Fetish
After the Party … (part III)
Catalina loves Naughty Secretary Roleplay
Charlotte Vale And I (Mz Berlin) In Bondage Gangbang On The Training Of O
The Enigmatic Angel’s Kinky Cinematic Journey
The Pleasure Of Torment
Push Button Behavior Modification
The Sarge And Backdoor Bondage Have Great Impact Play And Hogtied Style Bondage Content
Shoes, it’s really all about the shoes.
Snap, Crackle, and Pop
Whipped Pussy Reminds You To Always Keep A Spare In The Trunk

Sex Advice
Help, my boyfriend won’t go down on me!

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Can A Threesome Help You Find Your True Love?
Eco Sex and Green BDSM
Femme is a Noun, an Adjective, a Verb…
If You are Charming Smart, but Ugly, I Fuck You For Sure!
It’s a struggle.
Stripper Milf versus Stripper Teen: 69 points to ponder
Where The Hell Did My Boobs Go?

I Remember

I drempt last night of him, of my baby, my soul mate.
I dream less frequently of him now, after nearly 3 years, but it still gives me the same feeling, that slightly sick, slightly happy feeling of being close to you again. It wasnt a sexual dream, I think we were shopping, its usually the mundane things you remember, not the moments of intense passion or happiness. But it got me thinking of you. Got me remembering of how it was with you, my first, and, i wished, my last. It inspired me to write...

"Your fingers caress my flesh as if they would push through it, as if they sought to enter my skin, to touch my soul and never let go. Your mouth eats at mine as if you would breathe your last breath from me. Such urgency I have never know, never understood till now. Never been a part of till now. Its not that I want you in me, thats not enough. I want to be part of you, flesh melded into flesh, spirits entwined, pressed so close that we are only One, moving together, living together, dying together. If only"

And how I've grown since then. How my apetites have changed. How responsible I now know you were for bringing my true self, my true passions and desires out of me. Just for being you. How much fun we would have had exploring them, understanding them. I hope this makes you happy, cos it certainly makes me smile that old wicked smile of mine.

Pain and Pleasure

Tongue dancing across perfect flesh, hot breath on flushed skin.
Eyes fluttering shut, skin prickling to your every touch.
Lost in flesh and scent, nothing else but you.
Lips full, parted slightly.
A glimpse of teeth, of what's to come.
The promise of pain and passion, of marking and bruising.
Moisture on my thigh, a flash of tongue.
Then pressure, teeth grazing skin, biting down.
Grabbing at flesh, piercing skin.
Head bowing, spine arching.
Harder, bite harder, begging.
Moaning, throbbing, wanting.
Then the release, dizzyness, learning to breathe again.
A perfect white imprint of you in my pink flesh.
A reminder.

Virgin.....

Im new to blogging, a virgin of sorts, but not to sex.
Its fair to say i love sex. Ask anyone who knows me. I love everything about it. I love sharing it, talking about it.
So im gonna write about it. Everything. Things i do, things i want to do, things i don't want to do. And while you read, i want you to imagine it.....

Bella, my pseudonym, is a charcter i have a certain obsession with, so i searched for famous women with the same name. And I found lots of them. Queen Isobella, Bella Starr, who was an american outlaw, known as "The Bandit Queen" and Bella Flores, an actress from the 1930's who was best known for her iconic portrayal of film villains.... sounds like a have a lot to live up to!

Enjoy

Ode au plaisir, Chimère Erotique.

On the phone

It was a dirty little secret.

He would call me up in the middle of the night and we'd spend hours on the phone. I liked his California drawl, his laugh, his unironic use of the word "gnarly" and the things we would talk about, argue about.

We would talk until I was half-asleep, curled in my bed, stroking my hands down my own skin. It wasn't even dirty talk, not really, though sometimes he'd laugh and tell me that he was looking at my pictures right now, and my hand would creep down between my legs...

I never told him what I was doing.

I kept my toy beside my bed.

I reached down for it, pulled it out, and switched it on, keeping the phone next to my ear on my pillow. It was a quiet one, but it did the job, teasing my already-wet cunt. The vibrations made me shiver, but I had to keep my voice calm, to pretend that nothing was different, that I was enthralled with his story.

His voice was hazy, his words unimportant, as I stroked myself, breathing deeply, calmly, not allowing my hips to shake or my voice to break, just a tiny catch in my breath. The sweat was rising on my skin, I reached up to steady the phone with one hand and moved the other one faster, the vibrations thrilling me...almost there, yes...and I came, holding myself still, letting only the softest of gasps escape.

"You know what I mean, dude?" he said in my ear.

Oh, yes, I do.

Sugasm 145

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #146? Submit a link to your best post of the weekby emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Being Civil
“They couldn’t understand what the appeal of a civil union was for us.”

Clandestine Rendezvous
“He turned around to kiss me and I melted.”

Hotel Sex
“The excitement is too much for both of us”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
You Can’t Make This Shit Up, Part 2

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Image from fine nudes

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Let’s Pretend…
Masturbaticon I
Our Peculiar Erotica
“Pay No Attention To That Man Behind The Curtain”
Taking Charge of Your Own Pleasure
Tease and Denial: In Defense of Subtlety
Things that make you go Mmmmmm

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Babygate Continues!
Vibrators of the Future

Sex Work
Pillow Humping Cam Pussy

BDSM & Fetish
Arms to the sky
Beads
brock’s Last Task
My surprise for Daddy
Naughty, Naughty…Nice
The New Pet (fiction)
A proper thank you
The Runaround.
Welcome to Kinky Sex Link

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Bare back HNT
HNT - Stripping for the Bath Brush - F/m Spanking Pic
Sasha Grey (NewNudeCity)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
8:55 - On My Way…
Asian massage parlors
Awakening
Brains in her cunt
The “Ex-Pat” Love [2nd. Revision]
Fantasy Friday: Lips Like Sugar
Hausfrau
In the Early Morning Darkness
Not Quite Poetry
On the Back of a Motorcycle
Release
Your first time with me

A long time ago

I remember his lips. Very well. The way they felt on mine, on my skin, the way his hands felt.

It was so long ago, our fumbling mistakes and miscommunications. Our perfect kisses and not-so-perfect orgasms.

One night, though, when we kissed for hours until our lips were bruised, our bodies pressed together, even when we moved and shifted positions we didn't lose that contact, as much of his skin on mine as we could possibly get, and we ended with him behind me, his arms so close, his lips on my ear and his fingers on me, moving slipperysmooth and his whispers against me.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Nothing I've ever felt has topped that. Never.

He was so fucking beautiful. And so very much mine.

via インスピレーション

Sharing.

I have a couple of stories I want to share with you.

I don't know if I can do them justice right now.

One of them is true. One of them is only in my head. I'm not going to tell you which is which. I'm not going to tell you who they're about, or if it's the same person.

They're moments that haunt my dreams, make me shiver and smile when I'm reading alone, make me slide my hands under my skirt...

Thoughts of the stubble on his cheek brushing my thigh...

Thoughts of his voice whispering in my ear...

I will share them soon, I promise.

by Serge Guerand, via Le Chagrin

Bad sex

He rang me out of the blue on a Tuesday afternoon. I was grateful to hear from him, it had been a while and I'd missed him terribly. I agreed to him picking me up and taking me back to his house. He arrived on time and in the car we held hands all the way there, kissing at traffic lights; all smiles and laughing. He had soft hands and skin like velvet, he loved the way my hair smelt and thought my necklace was pretty.

When we arrived at his house it was already getting dark. A cold, dank January day, frost and rotting leaves in the air. We went straight to his bedroom. I'd never been in before. As he went in search of a condom I took my shoes off and looked around. An ashtray by the bed, tiny alarm clock, his girlfriend's earrings, a book with a black cover and neon blue writing. He couldn't find a condom, he said. "Doesn't matter," I said, "I'm on the Pill." (lying).

He pulled me down on the bed, frenetic kissing and moans. We were naked in a minute at the end of the bed, on top of the blankets. He kissed deeply. He was rough, forceful; Jesus, I loved this man. So kind, charming and lovely; a well-liked man, "Such a nice man," they said. His hands were in my hair, kissing my neck hard, he rolled over and pulled me on top. I cried out when he pushed his cock into me, "Shhhh," he warned; I wasn't ready, it hurt and he gripped me tight, thrusted deep in me once, twice, three times and came silently. He let me go and put his hands behind his head, smiling. I steadied myself from the sudden movement and looked down on him. Still smiling, his eyes closed. I nuzzled into him, kissed him and lay on his chest whilst his hands remained behind his head. The air grew cold again, it was dark outside.

He drove me home. No talking or laughing but he did smile at me. I put my hand on his knee, palm up. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and oh God, I wished that I would just fucking die.

New toy

I bought myself a present on Thursday.

I deserved it. I've been a good girl lately. Stayed out of trouble--not entirely by choice, but that's beside the point, right?

The OhMiBod plugs into your iPod or MP3 player and vibrates along with the music. Yes, I know. It's amazing.

It also makes it a bit more of a production than the usual toy that waits in a bedside drawer until you need it. The OhMiBod requires forethought, planning a playlist--you don't want it to stop on you at the end of a song when you haven't started singing yourself yet.

You have to take time out for yourself.

And I needed an extra excuse for that...

I crawled into bed early last night to try out my new little friend. After figuring out how to rig up the wires so as to plug into my toy and get the music into my ears, I queued up Nick Cave's "Lyre of Orpheus."

Cave's voice is the closest thing to audio sex I can think of, and this song has plenty of twisted ups and downs that translate well into shifts in speed and intensity. In other words, a great way to tease myself for a while, bring myself to the brink and then back off, and get used to a toy that thinks for itself. The volume wheel on the iPod controls the intensity of the vibes, carrying me further along, but Orpheus's lyre wasn't quite enough to send me over the edge.

The harsh, reverberating strumming and beats of "Supernaturally," however, were perfect. The throbbing in my ears echoing throughout my body brought out a truly intense solo orgasm.

The music simply adds that dimension that is usually missing from playing by yourself. Combine a great rock show, a great dance club, and actual stimulation....mmmmm.

I fell asleep after a few bodyshaking climaxes, and though I don't remember my dreams, I'll bet they were good ones, though perhaps a little violent as befits Mr. Cave.

In the morning, though, it was time for another test run. This time I reached for M.I.A., thinking her smooth voice and dirty beats would be another kind of experience. Suitable for the morning, sassy but mellower than Nick, who would be an aggressive lover I'm sure.

"Paper Planes" has the rhythm and consistency, with just enough changes, to provide the sort of lingering almost-there-almost-there-yes-god-don't-stop feeling that I only get most of the time from excellent head. The delicious shivers were too good and I had to hit repeat to keep the experience going just a little longer.

Somehow nighttime orgasms send me off to sleep purring happily, while morning ones drive me out of bed with an urge to write. I must say, though, that I've been tempted to take a break from the computer to try out more songs. Madonna? Prince? Mos Def? Some good old dirty-girl jazz? Hit shuffle and see what comes up?

Please, leave me suggestions. And enjoy my playlist thus far.



Toy purchased at Babeland, by the way, a sex toy shop that has the official Dirty Girl seal of approval.

via インスピレーション.

your first time with me

I've already imagined it.

You'll be wearing black as you always do, one hand in your pocket, the other hand holding a cigarette. You'll look at me and this time I'll be certain. This time I'll not be too scared or too shy, I'll know you want me and I'll not be too nervous to make it happen.

You'll be looking at me, trying to read me. My lips will part slightly as I breathe in and you'll be certain too. You'll take one last drag and stub out the cigarette and you'll turn towards me once more. I'll be shaking slightly; you're going to come close, you're about to walk towards me and the hairs on the back of my neck'll stand up. A shiver will run through me and you'll hear me breath out. You'll smile slightly... yes... Yes, it's about to happen...

... and it will in such a rush; you'll grab me and we'll kiss, grabbing at each other and "mmmmm...", your tongue'll be in my mouth; I'll feel it against mine, and "oh god..." (Oh God, if you knew how much I wanted this...), the door, slightly ajar, will slam with a terrific bang as you push me against it, and I'll kiss down your neck to your chest as I unbutton your shirt, frustrated because I'll not be able to do it fast enough or get close enough to you, "please, please..." (please god, oh I need to be close to you) and I'll gasp as you push my skirt up and as I wrap my leg around you, you'll grip my hair tightly...

We'll be breathing heavily and your face'll be inches from mine. Our foreheads will touch and you'll look me in the eye, smiling slightly; we both will. Your shoulders will pin me to the door, heady smell of aftershave, perfume, cigarettes and damp. You'll run your fingers lightly down my neck and collarbone and you'll take your suit jacket off in one quick movement as my hands move up and over your shoulders under your shirt. You'll kiss me lightly, barely, and I'll hear you unbuckle your belt, I'll hear the metal parts chink against each other and then the zip, "Oh, yessss...". You'll be holding your cock against me, I'll feel it grazing my clit, "oh god, oh god yes, I can feel you, yes..." (I want you feel you now, oh god I need you in me). Your other hand pulling my leg back up so it's wrapped around your waist once more, in a second you'll be in me, I'll breathe in as your face changes (I want you so much, so fucking much...), I'll be dizzy with the heat...

... and you'll plunge deep in me: your entire length buried deep in me in one quick movement, you'll fuck me as hard and as fast as you can; I'll cry out again and you'll kiss me to silence me; my muffled cries in your mouth, my arms tight around your neck, reaching down, grabbing your arse, urging you faster, faster, you kiss my neck, as I grip your hair. I'll feel your teeth in my shoulder, feel you tensing, you'll grunt and moan with each thrust and you'll get louder; close - you need to come and you'll be desperate, I'll whisper your name, louder and louder, wanting you to come in me so I'll urge you on; the door'll shake, banging, moaning, shouting, crying out; you'll thrust into me faster and faster; you'll be frantic, you'll pinch my nipple so hard I'll scream in pain and that will push you over the edge...

You'll come loudly, you'll come with force: you'll come deep in me just as I imagined; the heat and wetness inside me, so different from my own. Your head will be down, forehead against my shoulder and I'll stroke the back of your neck. Your hand will move up my thigh letting my leg back down. Deep breaths, wrap your arms around my waist and you'll hold me tight. Kiss my temple, "Do you want to lie down?" you'll ask.

"Yes," and we will. I'm aching for you, and you'll know I am. Lying back, looking at each other and laughing and the speed and intensity of it all. Your hand on my face; you'll kiss me...

(images: i-eye of the beholder ii-sexyjack, iii-sexyjack and iv-Les Adultes terribles)

Creating myself

I put on makeup, lean into the mirror, examine my skin.

I make myself into something you think you can understand. Paint my lips, exaggerate my eyes, pour myself into tight things that you think you can get underneath by peeling them off, but what I've created instead is a shield that you can't quite get past, and underneath it is all my real feelings.

I kiss you and part of me is there, part of me is feeling your lips, your tongue, your hand sliding beneath my skirt and finding, slowly, what you're looking for.

And part of me is above, and watching, and recording.

I do these things for the story to tell later.

Story: A former friend, and more recent enemy, with his face between my legs on a kitchen countertop. It is my birthday. I am twenty-five. He loved me once. Part of him still does. And part of the ritual when we fuck is making each other come harder, better, longer than we ever have before. It's revenge, sort of. It's a point that we have to prove. He kisses me afterward so I can taste myself. And in the morning we wake up and it's not even really awkward so much as we simply know that it only works for those few hours in the night. We barely talk.

Story: Against a wall in the train station, around a corner. It's late. I am drunk. And his kisses are sweet, the sweetest I've tasted for years and thousands of miles. I can feel his cock through his jeans, but he can't have me. It's just a tease. His fingers teasing. We breathe heavy, against each other. What do we want?

Story: Two beds in a dorm room that smells of old sweat. They are so close I could reach out and touch the boy in the other bed, who is asleep, or pretending to be so. I am kissing a boy with skin so tattooed I can barely tell what color it was underneath, and his kisses are delicious, perfect--hard to remember this now--that his touch, so hesitant, and his whispers, slightly shy, kept me shaking on the brink for hours. It was all downhill once we actually had a room to ourselves.

Story: A boy I knew from when we were kids--literally kids, grade school boyfriend that I've found again through the magic of the Internet--kissing me in the back of a cab. I have driven several hours to be there, and I am beyond tired and into delirium. I want this moment to last. He tastes so good. The sparkle in his eyes, the crooked grin that I remember...it's a trip back in time. But it can't last, doesn't last. Just for the night, and not even then.

I can say no to most people easily, but a bit of history, a little weirdness, a taste of magic or the promise of getting caught and there's a story to tell, later. A piece of you I can use. And so I give you the piece of me that you want to see. The taste you want. The person you think I am.

Devils and Blue Angels

All I want is everything. I've never done drugs, but I know what I like. I like touch. I like taste. I like friction. There's so much I want to try.

One can't stay home and screw all day, though. One can't just... languish. "Elegant waste" I once heard it called. If you want to keep the body around to play with, you have to feed it and clothe it and shelter it.

So I take off the masculine polish, I stop growling and graveling and making eyes at any pretty thing that strikes me. I put on the plastic, raise my voice an octave, and put on some sweetness, put on some light. I bury my contempt for people who hit all the wrong notes and expect me to sing.



But never a moment slips by that it isn't on my mind. Every person I look at, I wonder what goes on in their mind, I wonder what they're concealing. I have to resist the urge to bare teeth and pick apart to get at the bones of every person I come across.

At my heart, I'm a corrupter. I break other people's diets, I'm the devil's advocate, I'm a stranger with very good candy, if you're a consenting adult, I can find a beautiful rhetoric to justify whatever you want to do with any other consenting adult. I can rationalize anything. I can take the guilt away and make sinners feel good about their sins.

There is no morality, only ethics, and I'm really only interested in the ethics of filth. I'll try it all, someday, repeat what feels good, repeat vigorously what feels bad in a very good way, and abandon the rest.

There is no reason in this world to resist.

And I'm always falling in love again, not with another person, but with another idea, another experiment, another concept to penetrate.

Sometimes I think my curiosity could change the world.

"It's the good girls who keep the diaries...

...The bad girls never have time."

Tallulah Bankhead was one of the original dirty girls. Well, maybe not original--we'd have to go much further back in time for that.

I am not nearly as bad as she was, which is why, I suppose, I am writing this. Still, I will attempt to live up to the divine Miss Tallulah's image and write unflinchingly about everything naughty that comes across my path.

I like to talk about sex. Sometimes in places that it can get me into trouble. I'm fascinated by the subject, by men, and by glamour. I like black-and-white movies, ripped lace dresses, red lipstick, women who sing, honestly, and being kissed up against walls.

You may think you know me, but you don't.

The pseudonym I shall be using for this blog will be….

Joan. Joan after the beautiful Joan Fontaine, star of Rebecca, the most gorgeous film in the entire world.

I’m in my 20s and writing my thesis, so currently I spend an obscene amount of time at my desk. I love reading and I’m a book snob, so everyone assumes I’m a greater lover of written erotica. Not so; I’m more of a visual kind of girl. I like “man porn”. I don’t like being told as a consequence of this I support the rape and torture of women and children, but I deal with that directly elsewhere.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll come up with on this blog. A great deal of smut, I should think, and one or two notes on things I may have read or seen. I don’t intend to treat this as a formal project , it’s just, as the post below indicates, about writing freely, enjoying it, being open and being subversive. Shame it has to all be anonymous, but this is the way of the world right now.

What this is, and what it is not.

This is not a feminist blog.

This is not a sex blog.

Well, not entirely. We (most of us) consider ourselves feminists, and yep, we're going to do a whole lot of writing about sex. Some of it's going to be explicit, some of it's going to be arcane, theoretical even. Sometimes we'll tell you who we are, and sometimes we won't.

There are several of us, and hopefully we'll keep adding more.

What we want is for this to be a 'safe' space where women can talk about sex. About what WE want. No one's going to be shouted down. Your opinions and feelings are welcome. You don't have to agree with us.

What is not welcome: slut-shaming, name-calling, personal insults or attacks, or general judgmental asshole behavior. We will moderate comments. We aren't going to engage discussions on whether or not heterosexual sex is feminist. For the purposes of discussion here, we assume that consensual sex between adults is not rape or an unfeminist act, no matter what that sex involves. We assume women have the agency to make up their own minds about the sex they like and want to have.

And we want to talk about it.