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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Smut Club's LiveJournal:

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Tuesday, June 28th, 2005
7:21 pm
[mme_louise]
It was just a kiss. He didn’t pin me, or bite me, or even put a hand to my throat. With only his lips and tongue he spread me open and left me feeling taken and used and dirtied.

Goddamnit, I love that.
Friday, May 27th, 2005
1:35 pm
[mme_louise]
It was when he pulled the third layer snug around my chest that I felt something snap into place. “That feels so good,” I told him. I couldn’t move my arms at all, and could just barely wiggle my fingers.

He kept wrapping, covering my belly with layer after layer of plastic. “More,” I said at one point, and he smiled quietly, winding the wrap around me again and again. When I was covered from shoulder to hip, he looked me squarely in the eyes. “How do you feel?”

“I think I must really be a freak.”

“Because you like this?”

I nodded. “I want you to like this,” he said, and kissed me. “Can you lie down?”

“Not gracefully,” I said, and flopped onto my back. Then, we were both quiet, as he encased my feet and calves in the plastic wrap, working quickly and with a look of calm concentration so different from the furrowed brow I see when he’s tying knots. When he finished, he tried to tickle my feet—our usual way of testing my bonds. But, though I wiggled a little to please him, his touch felt good to move away from.

The bands of plastic held me tighter than any bondage I’ve ever experienced. I could bend at the hips and knees, but my legs were firmly held together. My arms were bound wrist to elbow beneath my breasts, held securely by several layers of plastic wrap that went on first, before the ones around my chest. I was completely helpless. The thought sent blood pouring into my cunt.

He began to tease me. He would play with my clit for a moment, moving it in slow circles, then roll me over to swat my ass or grab my head to slap my cheeks. Once I was moaning (which didn’t take long at all,) he grinned at me impishly and pulled on his shorts. “I’ll be back in a while,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

My cunt and I waited, it gaping hungrily, while I sank into my warm cocoon, savoring that strange combination of raging desire and deep quiet that comes over me when I’m tightly bound. And, this was so sweet, this embrace. So warm and snug and smooth.

He returned more quickly than I’d expected, perhaps wondering how I was responding to these new bonds. The look on my face must have told him, because when his hands landed on me that second time, they were not there to tease. He pounded me, first with the flogger, and then with his cock, pummeling my cunt, and coming between my thighs.

When he finally pushed the vibrator against my clit, there was nothing to do but take it. I came with a helpless joy.

Some time later, he cut me free, wrapping me instead in fleece and his arms. I snuggled against him and the afternoon curled around us.
Tuesday, May 10th, 2005
11:56 am
[dildo_halowe]
Saturday night brought pleasures I hadn't quite expected. Oh certainly: they were there in my mind is some fashion, hiding, their coy suggestions twining about my synapses. But they took the form only of idle fantasy, and I'd no way of knowing, once I finally met him, whether I would even want that.

He's one of my oldest online friends, someone I've known consistently in this medium only for over three years, but never met in person, despite his relative proximity to me. I had seen pictures, enjoyed his writing, and especially been intrigued by his poly family life - a life that recently fell apart, as mine did not long ago.

This past weekend, he decided to make an impulsive trip to meet me and my boy. I cleared it with said boy, who seemed pleased to meet such a person and not at all threatened. I figured we'd meet, go out for drinks, chat. Of course, we picked the place in our neighborhood where the drinks are extra-large and the magic of the atmosphere begs for deep confessions, fast friendships, and magical possibilities.

He showed up at my door, tall and handsome as his pictures, bearing flowers for me and wine for us. A thorough gentleman, as I'd anticipated. We did a brief house tour, then the three of us swept off to our neighborhood haunt.

Pomegranate martinis were the special of the day, and I may just have drunk a few too many, but after the usual life stories, dirty jokes, flirtations ever increasing in obviousness and a strong note of approval from my man, we wended our way back to the apartment, stalled with a bit of artwork-sharing, and eventually, reached a seeming impasse. The new boy suggested he fetch his overnight bag, as his alcohol consumption had pretty much guaranteed his staying over. As usual, my man came to the rescue with an unmistakable initiation of festivities: "Why don't we take care of the lady first?"

Take care of me, they did. I only wish I had a greater memory of it: alcohol was clouding me, and only brief erotic images come to mind: the new boy's face between my legs as (I believe) I put mine between my man's; being fucked from behind, the new man's come-cry music to me; my man fucking me afterwards, his vigor increased by how I'd been primed, by how ready I was for him.

In the morning: more sex with my man, after our friend got up early and prepared for the longish drive home. All through the day, and even to now, I felt more connected with him than ever, the emotional intensity increased, the bond strengthened, not by a challenge, but by a shared experience of newness and rightness, a feeling of growth that expands, rather than going outside, of our love.

Luckily we're all interested in doing it again...next time, sober and fully awake.
Monday, April 18th, 2005
2:31 am
[stickyprickly]
Followup to the followup
Okay, so when I bought that vibe attachment, it was partially with the intention to try...um...sticking it up my ass.

I wince to admit that, which is totally bogus, which is why I'm making myself post about it...six months later. If I can brag here about smacking and insulting women I love, I'd be a jerk to guard my dignity by refusing to confess to stuff like that.

Well, one thing I learned--condoms are too big for the G-Spotter, and fingercots aren't really long enough. I might try the "snug fit" condoms sometime, but you know, it's only in the last few years that I've been able to go into a CVS and buy condoms without my heartrate accelerating a little from nervousness. I'm in no hurry to walk up to the counter with a pack of X-tra Tinys, though I suppose if Emma can make her purchase, I shouldn't be a wimp about mine.

So how was it? Eh, good, but not amazing. The absence of fingernails was a refreshing contrast to other such experiences in my life. It went in very smoothly (with a little lube), and I probed around for a bit in search of the prostate stimulation that is apparently so delicious. No dice on that, but the vibrations were definitely pleasant, and the climax, when it came was intense. Will I do it again? Yeah, probably, sometime.
Thursday, April 7th, 2005
8:30 pm
[emma_b_sweet]
taking a lover
He catches my eye across the parking lot and I give him an excited half-wave. He slides easily underneath my arm for a small hug, and he feels warm and new. I brush my fingertips over the ribs of his shirt, thinking of the flesh and bone ribs underneath, wildly hoping to see him later, without the shirt.

We steal a kiss later, and flirt madly all night. He disappears to spin fire, and I watch, nursing a cool, pale beer. The evening air is still and damp against my face. After midnight, we say our goodbyes at the same time, meeting eyes over the heads of our friends. We dance around each other as we leave, bumping shoulders playfully, kissing with lips only, his hands full of gear and fuel.

I follow him home, knees shaking as I see an accident on the highway, my chest squeezing as I sort through my motivations, and find myself glad we didn't stop to see if the driver was okay.

At his house, we make tea and look up things on google. I try his homemade mustard, and smell the spices in the cabinet. It's all prelude, really.

Later, I sit on his lap and we kiss, him smelling like soap and deodorant and white gas. I nip at his ear, slide my tounge over his, exhale breath gently against his ear. I want to find a way to crack his reserve. One mustard seed still burns against my cheek, caught in my last back tooth.

My body doesn't burn, but I flame a little, gently. My cunt softens, and I let him slide my shirt off.

He is so breathtakingly beautiful to watch as he tounges my nipples. I am not usually so visually oriented, but just the sweet and concentrated way he closes his eyes and slides his small, sweet tounge over my nipples - I have to catch my breath.

We walk to the bedroom after a while, just a few short steps across the carpted floor. I grin and tease him about the pirate flag above his bed. Then I grin again remembering how I'd growled softly at him after he kissed me when no-one was looking, and he'd smiled and made a pirate joke.

We fall easily onto the bed, a squishy mattress on the floor, just where I feel most comfortable. Clothes come off quickly, but he pauses to take my socks off and rub each foot, just for a moment. My heart melts.

We grope softly, in the very dark dark of his room. We kiss, slidingly, subdued heat between us. The specters of my early morning and our mutual tiredness hang in the air behind us, keeping the passion tamped down. My throat scratches a little, too, slowing my reflexes, making me cuddly and slow. Eventually I roll him onto his back and begin to kiss his skin, avoiding his nipples, kissing his sides, his chest, chewing gently on the gorgeous path of hair just below his navel. Eventually, I give in to my growing desire and sweetly take his cock in my mouth. I moan a little, almost sub-verbally, as the warm smooth newness of his skin touches my lips, my tounge. I work him with my mouth, gently, slowly, easily. He squirms a little, then a little more, and makes the first sound of abandon I've heard from him, little escaping groans and whimpers. My cunt twitches, and I want to fuck him, suck him off, ravish him. When he digs his nails into my arm I groan appreciatively around his cock, and I feel him get a little harder. Soon, though, he pulls me up towards him, and we kiss, deeply.

"I love that your mouth tastes like me."

Swoon. I'm yours, beautiful.

-emma
Friday, March 4th, 2005
4:28 pm
[dildo_halowe]
From my journal.
Come out of the woodwork. Line up all your little buttons in front of me, like a typewriter, for me to press as I choose. Let me type out the scroll of your belief. Let me write the story of your fantasy, the story you never even would have thought of telling to yourself. Let me tease the paper through you line by line, injecting phrases from your childhood, words you've spoken to me, lines of dialogue you've told me only in gesture, in the way you stand when you're near me. Let the narrative stretch until what you want and what I want blur together, until, not as the djinn says but truly, your wish is my command: I command you, and whatever you are told to do is the thing you most wish for.
Monday, February 28th, 2005
8:43 pm
[gamahouche]
you're welcome
I had told this girl one of the things that really drives me crazy, in the best kind of way: to give me head until I was about ready to pop, then back off for a bit, start again, ease off, and keep teasing me on the edge for as long as she could keep it up, and then let me go off.

She had apparently decided this was the night for it, as she started by giving me incredibly delightful fellatio -- long warm strokes with her mouth and tickling-stroking my balls with her hands -- and just when I was ready to let fly, she pulled me out of her mouth and just stroked me gently for a minute. Then started again, moister and warmer, and pulled out again at the perfect moment. And grinned.

"You fucker," I breathed. "Not at this moment, no," she pointed out, and started on me again. It was beautiful: she kept me desperate and on the edge for several minutes, until I could barely think straight. Eventually, she either took pity on me or her jaw started getting seriously tired: "I think you really want to come now," and started sucking me truly in earnest.

My mind was somewhere else, my cock was in seventh heaven, and I was barely articulate. It was so fantastic that just as I felt myself hit the point of no return, I mumbled, "Thank you."

At that moment I heard a sputtering, spewing sound from down below. I thought that I must have hit her gag reflex and pulled back a bit in a moment of panic. But she didn't stop, and I came gloriously and whimperingly in her mouth. I still didn't quite understand.

What had happened was that she had laughed. You're supposed to say "thank you" after you come, she pointed out afterwards. She had been so surprised by the timing of my gratitude that she had involuntarily laughed.

But you know what it's like when you laugh suddenly while you're drinking something? ... with the nose and all? Yeah.

You know you've got a good relationship with someone when they can snorfle your jism and you can both laugh it off afterward.
Saturday, February 26th, 2005
8:50 pm
[dildo_halowe]
Ate some *ahem* brownies last night and had the spectacular, soul-melding sex that always comes with that activity...then had the luxurious sleep and sexy dreams that are also generally attendant to it.

In one fantasy scenario, a pretty blond boy I used to sleep with on occasion (in the waking world) was joining me and my boy in a threesome...sucking my boy's cock.

Not to be outdone in the fellating department, however, I had another, much weirder dream in which Hunter S. Thompson appeared - some part flesh, some part spirit, claiming he had fifteen minutes to be corporeal - and I sucked him off. Gross, weird, right? Somehow, though, it was the wild, bezerker spirit of his that was pure sex to me in the dream, and when he came (it was all sort of abstract, like an arty video, not like real sex), it was as if some part of that spirit flowed into me in a spiral. At that moment he too spiraled away into smoke and ghosts.

It was after the first dream, though, that I awoke, horny as hell. My boy was also partly awake, and we spent the morning by first having (careful; he's rather large) anal sex (ah, anal orgams, how I love thee!), then him running his hands everywhere on my body except my genitals, which were screaming for it by the time he touched them (ah, clitoral orgasms, thy sharp pleasures bid me yelp!), and then a proper fisting (ah, vaginal orgasms - well, you get the idea).

Needless to say, we both spent the rest of the day in a kind of restful giddiness.
Monday, February 14th, 2005
2:13 am
[emma_b_sweet]
just feeling
Saturday night we played our first really intense scene that didn't involve gential touching. I had asked him in the car on the way home if we could play a scene where I was not just submissive, but the scene would be all about my pleasure, and not my orgasm. I asked for sensation play, and for me to not have to think. This was something I'd wanted to ask for for a long time, but had been having so much trouble finding the words, finding the worth.

When we got home we decompressed for a while, and then he made the bed up with fresh sheets. He led me into the bedroom and started to undress me. Then he blindfolded me. He put on music and the next hour and a half or maybe two were all about him taking his time with my body. He started with a full body massage, working my feet and my tired calves, then my legs, then my shoulders and arms and back, and my chest. Once I was really getting relaxed, he started in with the light sensation, the fur paddle, his hands. Then after some tapping with the harder side of the paddle (possibly one of my favorite toys) he turned me over. We played with the nipple clamps for a little while but it was a bit too much for me. Then he turned me back over and started to spank me.

He spanked me for a long time, starting slowly, and building over time. I took more and more, and eventually I was moaning and gasping, pulling in deep, heaving breaths as I struggled with the pain. He leaned over and told me what a good girl I was being, and told me that he was going to give me one more round, and then it would be over, and I was going to take it all. I barely nodded my head, and wasn't sure whether I could take it or not. As his hand hit my ass with a sharp crack, I sucked in my breath and stretched my body into the pain. He hit me again, and again, and then - again. I whimpered and moaned, nearly in tears, but oh - I was flying. I hurt so much, and it felt so good.

After the last stroke of his hand he immediately leaned over me and started praising me, loving me, telling me how good and brave and wonderful I'd been. I felt melty and scared and small. He pulled me into his arms and slowly raised the blindfold from my eyes. I stared at his beautiful face, and the buried my face in his chest, and suddenly, began to shake violently. It was like full-body sobbing without the tears. I made small whimpering noises, and just surfed the strange aftershocks that were passing through my body. Just after he'd gathered me into his arms, a cd came on that is a favorite of mine, and it was just what I needed to hear. As I calmed down and started to begin to come back to myself, my lover wrapped me in warm blankets, and softly stroked my hair. We lay there through the whole soundtrack, moved deeply by the haunting, lonely, tearingly beautiful music. We talked and cuddled and slowly, slowly, I came all the way back to myself. Everything was tinged blue-green around the edges in that soft light, and a strange, overwhelming emotion flowed out of me.

Later, I put on his soft clothes, and wrapped myself in the blanket, a mug of hot tea cradled to my chest. I couldn't believe how cold I was, and how hungry.

-emma
Tuesday, February 1st, 2005
2:47 am
[stickyprickly]
In Praise of Handjobs (part 2 of 2)
I love giving handjobs to women. There's a certain tension in that phrase--the word seems to connote that it's done to men, perhaps because it seems to be derived from "blowjob." Though Dictionary.com disagrees with me, I say masturbation refers to the solitary act. Yeah, you see "she masturbated him" and such written from time to time, but it alwaus feel awkward to me--a square word squeezed into a round gap in the sentence.

"Fingerfucking" connotes, to my eye, manual penetration only, exclusive of clitoral contact. So handjobs it is.

I got to play several times with a very orgasmic woman. She could come from having her nipples licked; she could come from being kissed; she could come from sucking my cock. If you were gonna touch her clit, though, you had to learn to do it just right. In general, if I can give a woman substantial pleasure that way, it's because I've studied what she likes, and have learned the idiosyncratic combinations of speed, pressure, and location that work for her. For my money, that's fucking sexy. I have taken on this exciting new landscape, and I have wrested its secrets from it, learned to make it respond to my will.

Not that I'm disappointed if it comes too easily, mind. At one get-together a while ago, I was fingerfucking a beautiful young lady while rubbing her clit. She'd been very thoroughly worked-over by her paddle-wielding boyfriend less than half an hour before, and that she was still dazed enough that I'd hesitated to proposition her. But she'd agreed readily enough, and now her glowing red ass was propped on the softest pillow we could find while she reclined against another guest who nuzzled her ear and tugged at her nipples while I worked away at her cunt.

She started out sopping wet and languid, and soon was gripping my fingers inside her. Our eyes locked, our gazes intent as the electric energy of excitement buzzed back and forth between us. My own groans echoed hers as she pumped against my hand, and soon, without a word of instruction, her internal muscles were spasming, her back was arching--she was coming. Later, with her leaning against me as we watched someone else play, I mentioned my surprise at the accomplishment. "It was as much the way you were looking at me as what you were doing with your hands," she confided.

After a bit of thought, I decided to take it as a compliment.

I spent most of the rest of the evening bewitched by another woman who became, and remains, a serious lover of mine. She told me a week or so later that it had been my expression while playing with the first woman that had convinced her she had to try me out.

So there's the job-well-done stuff, and there's the power trip. Then there's the being-really-crazy-about-cunts part. I retain a kind of adolescent fascination with the mystery of penetration (perhaps even infantile--"Peek-a-boo!"), and the infinite graceful variation in this most female of female parts hasn't stopped bewitching me yet. My arousal will ebb and flow as I rub a woman off--I'll get hard, then soft, then hard again, but I rarely get really bored.
Monday, January 31st, 2005
5:32 pm
[emma_b_sweet]
um, a what?
Anyone ever slowly come around to realizing that they like something that would, perhaps, be deemed a fetish?

The dictionary definition says that a fetish is "an object or bodily part whose real or fantasized presence is psychologically necessary for sexual gratification and that is an object of fixation to the extent that it may interfere with complete sexual expression."

I say, however, that a slightly looser definition is in order.

What happens when you find yourself drawn over and over again to a specific thing, or series of things, or scenes involving said thing, sometimes to the exclusion of other, equally hot, non-thing-containing scenes? Not to say you've lost interest in all the other things you've always found hot, just that this particular thing carries a specific and marked heat.

I dunno. I guess I am wary of saying, "I like THING!" and having the crowd go, "Oh, you're a THING fetishist!"

What would be so bad about that, anyway? Guess I just don't want some subculture hurrying me out of one box and into another. Stupid fucking boxes.
Thursday, January 27th, 2005
12:55 pm
[dildo_halowe]
Three days.
The party was intense, three days full of kinksters of all shapes and sizes, many of whom I already knew personally. But most of what happened was between me and my boy alone. My boy, my Sir; it varies and I reveled more than ever in our switchiness this weekend.

Night one: watching, chatting, planning, imagining: A woman and her husband playing wrestling games, her strong, smooth body dodging and whirling around him, his brute strength overwhelming her over and over, bodyslamming her comically to the mats. They bounced and pounced through the room of mattresses until we were tired from watching them and from laughter.

A perfectly-formed woman I know getting tied down and tickled, scratched, shocked with an electric fly swatter and otherwise tortured by four people, and all the while screaming and occasionally stopping to direct the scene. Difficult bottom, pushy bottom, but a form made of water and air, flowing legs and hair, breasts pointing impossibly skyward, mouth open in the 'o' of a whirlpool, endless in pleasure, her energy like the crackle of lightning between high clouds.

Near them, my boy and I played, and, unbeknownst to me, we were being watched as much as they were. I was face-down on the bed, my limbs slipped beneath the elaborate rope-bondage that had been placed there ahead of time, wishing that the ropes were really immobilizing me. Meanwhile, the boy gave me the treatment: hand-spanking, paddling, then flogging with the heavy-cow flogger, surprisingly stingy, that I'd bought about a month before. I remember little: screaming, him stopping always exactly at the right time, when I was ready to die if he didn't. Afterwards, everyone said how much they'd loved watching: my bottom's easy redness, my screams and writhings, the little whimpers I'd make when I needed to be hit again.

Later, in the mattress room, my boy and I made love, feeling the fun of voyeurism and exhibitionism both as the sounds and sights of sex all around us heated up the room. Now and then the feeling of being watched, the short burst of terror as I step outside myself and realize what I'm doing, here, in front of everyone. Then the audience blends in, becomes part of the thrill.

The thing about a three-day party is that you don't have to do everything in one night. You can stretch it out, plan, connive, even.

Saturday we went shopping for collars. I wanted a sub collar for him, something to lock him down in. He preferred the spiky ones and bought one that suited him; I bought a generic leather dog-collar and decided to keep them both around.

Later that afternoon, it was back to the party. He was tired, and my suggestion that I tie him up and do terrible things to him was welcome: he finds it relaxing. Somewhere in there he made a remark about the "second collar," though earlier he'd said quite clearly that he was uncomfortable going under in public. I took my chance.

A St. Andrews Cross was set up in one of the rooms, away from the main action. Folks were mostly meandering, eating dinner and chatting at this point, so I took the opportunity to do a scene less public. I laid out everything I would need, including a few doozies I borrowed from a friend: a small, plastic, birchlike tool of several narrow dowels in a bunch, and a fairly wide lucite cane with a little tail at the end for singletail-style whipping without the skill set.

I had him take off his shirt. He was jolly, looking forward to the beating, extraverted and dominant as ever.

Then I put the collar on him. And locked it.

He was down in an instant. His head dropped; his eyes closed, and I knew then that nothing would matter to him except what I told him would matter to him, until I unlocked him.

He works this way, snapping in and out of subspace as if it were on a lightswitch. I take my time, sometimes snapping in when my top demands it, but never snapping out, always swimming, rising slowly, gasping for air.

I told him he was to address me as "my lady," and that he wasn't to say anything unless I asked him a question or he needed to call his safeword. He's had trouble in the past; if he doesn't like something he'll snarl at me, snap out, and, if I continue (having, in my view, been issued a challenge), he'll turn the tables on me, or just get mad. I decided to establish yellow and red safewords - and to impress upon him that he must use them if necessary. The St. Andrews Cross helped me here; it wasn't that stable, and could fall if pulled on too much. I told him so, and that if he fell, the cross would go with him. He was docile and compliant after that.

I fastened him to the four points of the cross and started in with the banjo picks I bought for scratching. I scratched out a tic-tac-toe; I carved my name into his back. I had some fun making red scores on his white flesh. Then I went for the Wartenberg wheel.

Having been warmed up, he was ready for it; I was able to push harder with it than I have in the past. It's frightfully sharp, more so, I think, than the usual medical model. Over his scalp, down his neck, his spine, almost into the crevice of his ass, which I was beginning to ache to redden. Across his body; over the letters I'd scraped. Then, I was bored, and said so.

I paddled him, flogged him with a short, light, deerskin (and made it hurt), flogged him hard and long with the heavier-duty cow flogger (my pride and joy), and helped him discover new sensations with it. Finally, I played a bit with the birch and the cane/whip, alternating thuddy and stingy, administering varied sensations, enjoying his varied screams and moans.

At the last, I untied him, leashed him, and led him to a room with a bed, where I wrapped him in blankets. The moment I unlocked the collar, he was up and out and talking. Energized, and ready to go for the night. I, on the other hand, needed a nap.

He planned for us to play with another couple I'd been eyeing: a beautiful, shaved-headed femme and her long-blond-haired subby man, the kind with sparkly blue eyes with crinkly edges. They both had claws: one set with one point per finger, one with two, both quite sharp and concentrated. He collared me, but didn't lock it; I think that was a mistake. I was in that inbetween space that isn't quite subspace, where I wanted to be sure he was in control, but didn't know if he was. He kept asking me what I wanted; finally, I said, "I want you to have a plan."

Slam! Down I went on the mattress, my arm held behind my back, my ass given several sharp slaps as punctuation to his hissed command in my ear: "Don't you ever top from below."

Frazzled, sore and in perfect subspace now, I waited for his next command.

While he stroked me, went down on me, fingered me and otherwise ravished me, the beautiful couple sat on either side of me and scratched. At one point I needed a kiss, desperately, and asked for one: the woman gave it to me, full and sensual and lovely. Eventually they naturally stood aside, and the boy and I finished on our own, once again surrounded by the sounds of the other partygoers.

By this point, exhaustion had set in, and snow was falling furiously. We'd no way to get home, really, so we stayed, sleeping, and again loving, in one of the beds.

Sunday was an interesting conundrum: leaving the hotel continued to be, if not impossible, at least highly undesirable in the continuing blizzard. We ate a less-than-mediocre breakfast, then spent much of the afternoon planning and scheming as to how we would manage to either stay or go.

In the end, we stayed for the afterparty. I donned my claws once again and scratched my boy's back while he and another man scratched, nipple-tortured, and manually stimulated a petite lady in her 40s we'd all been admiring.

Later, the topic that had arisen late the night before, so late that we were too exhausted to do anything about it, resurfaced. One of the hosts wanted to do a scene with me and another woman. The other woman, the same electric-sparking perfect body and gorgeous mind from the other night, had done the scene before, and assured me of its pleasures.

It involved a double-ended dildo, two Magic Wand vibrators, and the host in the middle to turn the dildo.

A group gathered, in addition to those already sitting around; for this scene, we chose the most public space at the party. In front of everyone, with great encouragement, the two of us threw energy around and through one another, and came over and over again. My boy sat behind me, stroking me and holding my head; another friend of mine, currently breastfeeding, sat behind her, her occasional spontaneous lactation surprising me by adding to my excitement.

The party at last had reached its ultimate point for me; the major thing I'd been waiting for, the truly bombastic experience I had felt was missing, had occurred. And it was at last time to go home.
Friday, January 21st, 2005
5:54 pm
[mme_louise]
“Please fuck me,” you said. I smiled. I was enjoying your cock in my mouth. You weren’t fully hard, and I liked rolling your cock around with my tongue, feeling it swish softly against my palate. But how could I deny a request like that?

“Ok, here’s what I’m going to do.” I rubbed your lips with my thumb. “I’m going to put on a glove, and get some lube, and then I’m going to play with your asshole while I continue to suck your cock. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please.”

Glove on, and legs repositioned—yours and mine—to give me access to your crevice, I squirted some lube into my hand and held it for a moment to warm it. I lowered my mouth to your cock at the same time as I lowered my hand to your knotted sphincter. You were tense.

Slowly, and gently, I hope, I rubbed the liquid into your asshole, slipping the very tip of my middle finger in as I did. I watched your face as it relaxed, the muscles under your eyes softening. I emptied my palm of lube and reached for the bottle again. This time, I used my index finger. I slid into you, up to the second knuckle, and massaged the muscles that held me there. I moved in little circles. One. Two. Three. And your asshole gave way. My palm rested against your perineum.

I held still for a moment, renewing my attentions on your cock. Then, I began to move inside you, timing the thrusts of my hand with your own thrusting in my throat. We went on this way for a while, until you needed a break. When you were ready for more, you raised your left leg, resting your calf on my shoulder.

Did I say “Oh God”? Or, did I only think it? A wave of desire spilled over me, an irrational, terrifying need to grab your hips and pound into you with the cock I wasn’t born with and wasn’t wearing. You saw it on my face and grinned.

But this wasn’t the time. You were starting to get sore, and I wanted to see you come. So, we pulled off the condom, and you took your cock into your hand. I pulled out of your ass again, and waited for your response. I couldn’t risk confusing my desire for yours.

“Please,” you said. “Put your finger inside me again.” And I did. Two, this time, rocking them in time to your bucking hips. I pressed my belly against your thighs, imagining that it was my cock buried inside you, and humped your ass with my hand and my hips until you came, throwing arcs of jism across your chest.

Pulling out, I stretched my self against you. “Sweet boy,” I purred. “I’ll fuck you soon.”
Wednesday, January 19th, 2005
10:45 am
[mme_louise]
Why My Left Wrist Hurts
I started out masturbating in my usual way, with the forefinger of my right hand on my clit. After a few minutes of this, I wanted something inside me. Ok, what I really wanted was your cock inside me, but you weren't here, and I didn't figure you'd welcome a phone call at 8 a.m., so I made do. I started with two fingers. There was no way that one was going to be enough. And this is where I was wrong. As soon as I slid those two fingers into my dripping cunt, I knew they weren't enough, either. I thought again about calling you, begging you to come fuck me. But, I didn't. Resourceful girl that I am, I simply pulled out, tucked my ring finger in alongside the others, and resumed fucking myself. Shit. You fucking bastard. I needed more. Do you have any idea how hard it is to fuck myself with all four fingers without doing serious damage to my wrist? Especially when I come and my cunt clamps down on my hand, folding my hand in on itself again and again. Fuck you, you bastard. This is all your fault.
Monday, January 3rd, 2005
12:19 am
[emma_b_sweet]
woman
Tonight, for the first time, I had one of the great and gorgeous mysteries of the universe opened to me. For the first time in my life, I had a woman naked in my bed. Not only was she naked, but she was naked because I'd undressed her. I'd opened the door for her hours before, I'd poured her a glass of water, I'd massaged her neck and taken off her sweater, folding it neatly before I put it on the floor.

We'd kissed for an eternity, laughing at our stop-and-go, at one point pausing half-dressed, for a snack. Each time I touched her skin I felt as if I'd never touched skin before, and when I cupped her astounding ass in my hands I wanted to die from happiness right then.

I could have spent hours just feasting on her breasts, so fascinated and enthralled was I. I wanted to kiss and tounge and pet her fine, fine skin for hours. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the sight of her cunt. For the first time I was touching a woman below the waist, looking, and feeling, and feeling so, so awed. When I slid my gloved hands over her mound and watched her shiver and moan I felt as if I was seeing the most true and intimate part of her. And then - oh, then - then I slid a finger inside of her, and I gasped, shocked at the hot, squeezing endlessness of her cunt, the perfect humility of privledge that I felt - the beauty of her.

Laughing and kind, she began to tell me things she liked, and her sweet, accomodating body was so easy and happy under my fingers. Bravely, I tried one thing after another, and was surprised and delighted with her series of little orgasms. I felt her body ease and relax, and after a long while, I slipped a second finger inside of her. Gathering all my newfound knowledge, I started to try several things at the same time. As I gently massaged her hips I began to stroke her, slowly fucking her with my fingers, feeling her clit with my thumb. Unable to take my eyes off her face, I trusted my hands to keep up with her body. I watched in awe as her skin flushed a deep pink and she dug her nails into my arm. I hardly noticed, she could have accidentally drawn blood and I wouldn't have minded, so focused on her was my attention. As she cried out and shuddered and bit at my pillow, I felt my body melting with happiness and joy. I caressed her gently for a long time afterwards, feeling her heartbeat around the two fingers still in her cunt.

Many hours later, as I kneeled to tie her beautiful boots, I flushed with remembered pleasure, and as I walked her home from dinner, I was proud and pleased to have her holding my arm, walking beside me.

Oh, woman, how beautiful and fascinating you are.
Monday, December 20th, 2004
3:57 pm
[mme_louise]
Sunday evening, I felt a lust that I hadn't in a while. I was, of all things, topping! Briefly, mind you, and playfully. With damp palms and a nervous grin, I whisked my lover with his beautiful flogger. A tap on the left shoulder. A brush over the right. I built up speed slowly and began to hear a rhythm.

And then, there it was. It hit me so hard, I dropped my arm. I don't even know what to call it! Dominance? Toppiness? Lust. I wanted him, but I wanted him to be mine. I wanted to hit him and to hold him, to make his skin sing and his breath dance.

I am dizzy in the recollection.

I have topped, perhaps, a dozen times in my life. Most often, I do it as a kind of care-taking, a way of giving my lovers a protected place when they are tired and scared. This is always more about love more than sex. Sex is just the medium. I might have chosen to bake cookies, and the message would have been the same.

And, I have topped experimentally, with new lovers, as a way of feeling for the edges of our relationship. Typically, this happens once, and not again.

Then there is this. "Could I try? Just for fun?" stirred a desire I'd forgotten that I knew.
Thursday, December 2nd, 2004
12:35 pm
[stickyprickly]
In Praise of Handjobs (part 1 of 2)
I love getting handjobs. I feel a little lame saying that, like someone whose favorite cuisine is found 'neath the golden arches. Everyone know that HJs are at the bottom of the partnersex food chain--less intimate, less exciting, and less physically pleasurable than any other way of getting your rocks off.

With those first two, at any rate, I guess I'd have to agree. But the lack of excitement is made up for by the luxurious absence of stress. No decisions to make, no one else's pleasure to shepherd. I love getting my cock sucked, but I do tend to worry a little: is my partner's jaw getting sore, is she getting bored, am I moving my hips too much? And the sensation, though intensely pleasurable, is usually not of a force and speed to make orgasm easy; which isn't really a problem in itself, but can be another source of stress--i want to pay my lover the compliment to her skills of coming from her oral ministration (and let's be honest--I like the idea, I find it hot), but it often requires some mental focus to do so.

And compared to fucking, it's just so simple. I don't even have to move my hips--just lie back and absorb the pleasure. It's like suckling at Mommy's teat. Other kinds of sex offer deeper satisfactions, hotter desires, nobler emotions. But nothing else offers such pure and simple pleasure.

Of course, in all this high-falutin' discourse, let us not overlook another important factor. B is a fuckin handjob goddess. Her soft, patient, knowing little fingers send roaring rockets of sensation up my spine, and produce the most utterly effortless orgasms I have ever experienced.
Monday, November 29th, 2004
1:44 pm
[emma_b_sweet]
time well spent
It was an eventful weekend. My lover and I have been suffering from the affliction of never having enough time to linger in the world of sensuality. Sex in the last few weeks has been squeezed in late at night after long days at work, stuck at the end of filmy, exhausted weekend evenings after partying, and pounced hungrily upon on hurried, frantic mornings before I dashed off to work.

It had to stop. I often take a long time to get relaxed and comfortable enough to have an orgasm in front of a partner, and the rushed sessions were making me tense and frustrated. I hadn't had an orgasm in what seemed like weeks (and probably was), and was building up a tight, tearful, angry jealousy.

We agreed to spend a whole day together, 24 hours during which we had no plans, no agenda, no time constraints. We could spend the whole day in bed if we wanted.

We started with lunch, always an excellent idea. Then we walked for a long time in the cool autumn air, stretching legs easily and warming up the body. I relaxed into our conversation, into the feel of the air on my face, feeling light, calm, loved. When we got home, we immediately went off to bed, wanting to capture the end of the natural light, the shadows of an incanscent bulb being too stark a light by which to do the good work we had in mind. Healing the accumulated hurt inside me would take time and gentle, forgiving hands.

We fucked easily for a while, kissing deeply, reveling in each other's scent and taste. I felt as if it had been so long since I'd had time to really pay attention; I was feeling his skin for the first time. We rolled around in the pillows, the crush of skin and weight of muscle almost painfully sweet. Our kissing was playful and langourous, our limbs tangled and untangled easily.

Eventually I stradled him, feeling shy. I have had little luck being on top during our play, I get shy and embarassed, feeling as though I have forgotten how to orchestrate, feeling large and awkward. This time I kept on going after the first wave of embarassement. I settled forward into his hips, grinding against him, starting to remember how my legs worked. I felt my ass and breasts jiggling and I leaned into the sensation instead of blocking it. I let my consciousness expand to take in my whole body, feeling the sweat pooling in the small of my back, my calves flexing, my breasts swaying. When he came I felt an intense surge of loving triumph, and the beginning of a deep relaxation.

Afterwards, he flipped me onto my back and started to finger me. My cunt and I were both feeling loose and languid, and as we played time slowed. First it was one finger, then two, then three. With eyes wide he asked if I wanted four. I nodded yes. Without thinking about it, I started to breathe deeply and fully, inhaling and exhaling slowly as I was penetrated by the most fingers I'd ever had inside me. I could feel stress and pain ebbing out of my body, my hips opening and relaxing, a slow, oceanic peace coming over my mind.

Then he offered me his thumb. Eyes wide, heart pounding, I accepted it. He showed me his hand, and then, slowly but not too slowly, started putting fingers back inside me.

"This is one. This is two. This is three. This is four. This is five, lover. This is my hand."

I gripped his free hand with one of mine, feeling his heat and love transmitted between us. I breathed more and relaxed, feeling the joint of his hand pressing up against the edge of my cunt. I inhaled, I was the ocean, all love flowed in and out of me, I accepted all into me. I exhaled, tidal, flowing. We hovered here for a while, giddy, swaying. My feet tingled, I felt high. He watched in wonder.

When he took his hand out of me I sank a little into the mattress, feeling textures again, feeling how cold my feet and hands were, marvelling at the place I'd been to. I hadn't come during the near-fisting, but my body was as happy and satisfied as if I had. It was like a totally mental orgasm. The anger and pain of the week had bled off, and I was left feeling calm, so calm, nearly euphoric. I held out my arms and he crawled up into them, we embraced so hard, and settled in for a cuddle. I smelled like him, and he like me. Our debt of time was nearly paid.
12:05 pm
[dildo_halowe]
Last night he lay beside me, behind me, his warm limbs wrapping me. His body is always warm all over, but now it was almost feverish. His feet were warm; the space around his calves was hot. I could feel his belly against my back, sweating slightly.

The sweet togetherness that is usually between us when we are falling asleep was disturbed somehow. I was too tired to do much about it, but I snuggled closer to him, and at the edge of my sleep, like a droplet of water you know is about to go over the side of a table as you watch it, your head down, your eyes level with the surface, I worried. At last he turned on his back. I kept thinking I heard the soft fleshy rustle of male masturbation, and finally turned to see whether I was hearing correctly. No; he was soft and placid; I think his hand had just been rubbing the sheets or slowly sweeping over his body. He said, "I'm miserable. I'm closed off, I feel disconnected, there are all of this bad emotions and I feel insomnia coming on. Help me."

I felt his chest, put my left hand at the center of him. Nothing. The image that came to mind was of closed double doors, white and strangely toothed. I rocked my hand on his chest, shaking him back and forth slightly, then in a circle, trying to loosen and open his heart. He was cold, and needed more blankets. I put my thumb between his eyebrows, at the third eye chakra where he is always so active and open. Out into my thumb flowed black muck, like a thick cloud of gnats. He shuddered a little; I felt sick and got a headache. I drew my hand away and flicked it into the air, hard, shaking off all of that. He was closed all right, closed and filling with bile. Finally he turned his front to me to be held, said, "Sometimes I just feel like a waste of space."

Now this is extremely uncommon. This is a strong, capable, charming, elegant man, full of confidence - the real kind, the true self-loving kind. But some funk had come over him, and in our world, we are allowed to say such things to each other, to be weak before each other, to allow the other to heal us.

I took him, held the back of his head to me, rocked him like a child. My little boy, I call him when he's like this, my little baby, like he calls me sometimes. L'ovachka moj, little lion. He curled into me, close to sobs. I rolled him onto his back again, placed my hand on his throat. Yes, he said, yes, again. At once I was overtaken by horniness. In a moment I understood the dominant side of adult baby fantasies and incest fantasies: the desire of the man to be completely weak and helpless I always understood; but the desire of the woman to be powerful, nurturing, to soothe and heal even as she scolds - I was feeling it for the first time. I held him, stroked him, let him be a child. He said he could only be strong with me, only because of me. I knew it was a game, but a high-stakes one, where the need was real. He pushed me gently down to suck him; I said I wasn't sure, but then gave him a few gentle kisses there, tender licks to let him know that I was still in control, no insistent thrusting into my mouth. Finally, "put it wherever you want, wherever you want," he said, his voice a whisper, a whimper.

I wanted him, but I was so tired, and not ready. I didn't want him forcing himself into me, and anyway, I wanted to be worshipped for a while. Put your mouth on me now, I said, and he reverently went down, kissed and sucked me to a shockingly fast orgasm. I was turned on so much by then, and I hadn't even realized it. It was once of those heaven-opening orgasms, the kind where the top of it is all white light in the shape of a dagger piercing a silver sun.

Then he was inside me, softly. He always goes a little limp while he's down on me; his attention is entirely there. He came back, slowly, slid into me, and stiffened, holding me, his body sinking down to mine as I said yes, yes, let it go, let all of that shit out, all of the black emotion, let it go...and he came in a long moan, not the usual sharp intakes of breath, the usual jerks and shudders, but a long stream of release.

He lay beside me then for a long time, relaxed, but still unable to sleep. But by the morning he was happy again.
Friday, November 26th, 2004
2:11 am
[stickyprickly]
Followup
I was at my local sex shop the other day stocking up on lube, and I picked up an insertion attachment for the Wahl. Dunno if vibrations are gonna be effective or appealing when applied that way, but it was about five bucks, and it seemed like an interesting experiment. The way this shop shows off their insertion toys, they're unpackaged so you can pick them up, feel their weight and texture, do little puppet shows, whatever. Once you figure out what you like, a staff member goes in back and picks you up a pristine copy. So I didn't get to see the packaging until I was at the register.

It's the first sex toy I've ever seen with a bibliography.
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