Category Archives: Erotica

These Are My People

SilverHubby shown at the waist, clothed, his hands holding a collar.

I said that in Twitter.

I was referring to the feeling I got when I arrived at Eroticon for the Sunday sessions. We are all unique in our own way – this is a given – but to be surrounded by people who are body/sex/gender/race/relationship (and all the other things) positive, was emotionally overwhelming at times.

I had already met Molly and Michael several times, so it was comforting for there to be two familiar faces. But I also got to put faces to pixels. Exposing40, Bee and Bee-Keeper, ClearEyedGirl etc. There were many others, and I so wish I could have been there for the social stuff to talk with you all more.

Highlights included seeing Bee get her brand (and her squeak). ILB’s session on keeping your blog going was great. As was Ruby’s on the call out culture.

The list of people there was no time to meet is long, and a little sad. Unless they were avoiding me. 😉

Silverdrop couldn’t come with me, as she is recovering from surgery, but we will both be there next year.

In the meantime, I have two new stickers for the lid of my laptop. I TOLD you I was a geek, Bee!

Clickety-click for larger version.

Succubus (Fiction) – An erotic tale for Halloween

An erotic tale for Halloween.

A wooden carving of a succubus set in the roof angle of a half-timbred outside wall
Source: Wikipedia

It was an old, 16th century inn, and the sculpture in the rafters of the nude succubus was a sign that it had also been a brothel. That’s what the little tourist brochure said. Timothy didn’t know how accurate that was, but of course a titillating story like that sold better than “Someone carved a naked woman here and we don’t know why.” If it was true, he wondered if the customers of the brothel remembered that the succubus was known for stealing the seed from her victims, then shifting into an incubus and implanting the seed into a female. Or that both succubus and incubus were known for stealing the breath from their victims. These were only stories invented to make sense of wet dreams, illicit pregnancies, or unexplained deaths, of course. But the myth of the succubus, who forced herself on a sleeping man, had prevailed for centuries, and probably always would.

The best view of the entire sculpture could be had from below, but from the window in Timothy’s room, he could see her left breast close up. Timothy admired its frank eroticism, and that it had survived so long, and then he looked down onto the street.

He saw quite a few people in fancy dress – more adults than children seemed to be celebrating Halloween. There were sexy pirate wenches, sexy vampires, sexy nurses, sexy harem girls – and many men in costumes more comical than attractive. It seemed costume designers hadn’t quite figured out how to sexualize the male body. All of the costumed people were headed to pubs or parties. Timothy had read somewhere that Halloween had become a sort of “Straight Pride” event – a chance for heterosexuals to dress up and behave like sluts.

It wouldn’t be hard for Timothy to join in on the events. He didn’t have much in his suitcase, but he could probably improvise something, if he stopped somewhere to get some makeup. He imagined himself as a zombie, finding a single girl dressed as a sexy necromancer, buying her drinks, bringing her back here. They’d giggle over the succubus carving. He’d run his hands over her body through her satin costume while she ripped off the rest of his torn t-shirt. He’d drop to his knees to go up under her skirt and start eating her out, tasting pussy for the first time.

I don’t have any condoms. I’ll have to remember to get some when I get the cosmetics, he thought.

He didn’t go out. He sat propped up in bed, using his laptop, looking at porn and jerking off. It was easier than thinking about how to approach a real woman.

It was long after he’d put the laptop away, near midnight, when the succubus came through his window. He heard the creak of the window opening, felt the chilled breeze, smelled something that reminded him of the strip club he often frequented, the smell of female. The only light was the crescent moon, which gave him a silhouette of her curves.

Then she was on him.

Timothy had never been with a woman he hadn’t paid for – had never had anything close to this experience. She seemed to have more hands than was possible, touching him everywhere, kissing him everywhere. Her body was ripe and luscious, and when she crouched over him in a manner that was not an offer, but a demand, he didn’t hesitate. This was ambrosia, the god’s nectar, served on Olympus. This was the elixir of immortality. He was already close to the summit, and when she put her mouth on him, he groaned his pleasure into her cunt while she drained his cock dry.

“Did you feel the earth move?” was said the next day, usually with giggles, by the formerly costumed partygoers who had found a companion for the night. A minor earthquake had occurred. A few chimneys had fallen. Some masonry was damaged. The electricity was out parts of the town. The owner of the inn knocked on doors one by one, making sure no one was harmed, assuring them he’d called the power company, and so on. When number 8 didn’t answer, he knocked again, harder, called out. Finally, he got his master key and entered.

Timothy Brazier was in his bed, nude, his eyes open and staring at nothing, his body coated with plaster that had been knocked loose from the ceiling, his mouth wide open and full of the same dust.

Soon the inn was crawling with people. Paramedics, police, the coroner, the insurance adjuster. The owner took a moment when no one was bombarding him with questions to walk around the inn, and make sure the historical carvings hadn’t been damaged by the tremor, and ticked them off mentally, one by one: the gryphon, the lion, the dragon, the unicorn, the incubus. He looked up at the incubus, with its lewd, oversized genitals, and had a sense that something was wrong. No. It was just nerves. It was only the knowledge that a man had suffocated to death in the room next to the incubus. He moved on.

Originally published September 23, 2011

Something for the weekend

What if I offered you the right?

It’s been eleven years? Twelve years? For some reason, I can’t remember how long it’s been since I made the offer, though I know the date: October 24.

We’d been flirting online. I knew I was aroused by BDSM play, but had no idea there was a BDSM community. He was telling me stories about his experiences. I was being sassy. (It was me, of course I was being sassy!) He said he’d like to spank me. Of course that’s exactly why I had been doing it.

“Why don’t you?” I asked. Pushing.

“I don’t have the right.” He replied.

The words came to me in a flash of inspiration. I knew what I wanted. I knew he wouldn’t take it. But I could give it.

“What if I offered you the right?”

Later, he told me that my words had triggered an immediate orgasm, sitting there at his computer, when nothing more than flirting had been going on. Later, I recognized that that moment, the moment when I made that offer, was a turning point. It was the moment I had claimed my own sexuality. It was the moment I laid a claim on the man I wanted.

There is no anniversary more meaningful to us than the day I said those words. And I’ve never regretted them.

The female blogger, Silverdrop, shown nude from shoulders to hips. A black metal leash drapes between her breasts from an unseen collar. The leash is gripped by the hand of her male lover, SilverHubby.

Something for the weekend

#Wicked Wednesday – Freshly Scrubbed (Fiction)

Write from the point of view of a freshly scrubbed floor.
As usual on Wicked Wednesday, I asked SilverHubby for his thoughts, and this is what he said:

I am feeling freshly scrubbed and am trying not to mind the fact that I smell of cleaning products. It’s been an interesting evening.

He was working from home today, she was out somewhere. Sometime after dark he started doing things that weren’t part of the normal routine. When one of them is out of the house without the other, they always leave a light on in the hallway. At various times I have heard one of them say: “There’s a light burning for you, to help you find your way home.” This evening he turned the hallway light off, plunging me into near darkness apart from the small amount of light from the street lamps that shone through the glass panels along the top of the door. He stood in the shadows, clad only in a tee shirt, apparently waiting for something more to happen.

I heard the sound of a key in the lock. It was she. She called out his name, a slightly worried tone to her voice, wondering why the house was in darkness. She took a step onto me and he pounced, grabbing her by the hair and one wrist, pushing the door shut with his body. She squealed in surprise and the hand in her hair moved across her mouth as he pulled her against him. His other hand started tearing at her blouse and skirt, pulling them aside, not off.

He pushed her to the floor, but taking care to break her fall. Her breasts, half out of her bra, were squashed against me, as was her belly. I saw him use his knee to force her legs apart as he pulled her panties down, but not off.

She was struggling, but not very hard. A few drips of something wet fell from between her legs and onto me. A stickier liquid dripped from between his legs and mixed with it. I saw him enter her body roughly, but with little resistance. He grunted, she squealed. One of his hands moved to her throat, squeezing gently. Her body was being pushed rhythmically against me as he thrust into her.

More sticky, musky liquid fell on me as he pulled out of her and entered a different, tighter, orifice. She squealed again, but was lifting off me to push back against him. The dripping from her other hole increased, as did his grunting. He no longer needed to hold her down, as she was reaching back as best she could to pull him deeper into her body.

I couldn’t tell you whether he or she made the most noise at the end. I can tell you that a great deal of sticky white stuff fell out of her and onto me as he left her body. I can also report that she collapsed against me with a whimper as he said: “Welcome home, slut.”

A little later, she came to me on her knees, a squirty bottle and cloth in her hand. She did a very good job of making me feel freshly scrubbed.

Click below to see who else is being wicked this Wednesday.

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Something for the weekend

#WickedWednesday – So I Asked SilverHubby About Parties

And this is what he said …

 



I guess I should start by wishing Wicked Wednesday a very happy birthday, so consider that done.
 
Neither of us are much into parties. Certainly not this sort.
Headache time!
This is more our style.
An intimate meal with good friends.
Play parties are a different matter, of course – although we’ve not attended one yet in this country. Being able to lead your partner by her collar and leash into a room of fellow kinky people is very err, liberating. Harder these days, as it’s difficult to find somewhere with wheelchair access – the majority of get-togethers seem to happen in basements with only steps as access. *sighs*
Parties can also just be between the two of us. As on the occasion of my 42nd birthday, when we were still LDR and an ocean apart.
 
There was a cake, with candles.
You had to blow the candle out for me.
There was a gift.
Remind me: was the gift the thing inside the paper, or the lovely slut holding it?
There was even a party favour bag.
Was the favour inside the bag, or holding on to it?
All in all, that was a happy/sad but wonderful party. Of course, the birthday (and other) parties since we’ve been physically together have been rather more pleasant [quaint British understatement alert].
Then there is the party that goes on in my mouth and other places every time I taste you, but that would be far too rude to talk about on a sex blog, wouldn’t it?  🙂 

 

Previous posts from So I asked SilverHubby here.

#WickedWednesday – So I Asked SilverHubby About Orgasms

And this is what he said …

Orgasms, eh? We’re lucky in that we can orgasm simultaneously 99% of the time, which always adds to the experience [understatement alert].

I shall do my usual flying off at a tangent (the only way to get off the Oxford ring road incidentally) with this and describes our various types of orgasms as I experience or witness them:

Silverdrop’s:

  • The “Fuck me!” orgasm. Sometimes, well quite often actually, Silverdrop will repeat this phrase over and over when she’s getting close-ish to orgasm. It usually results in me fucking her really hard – which she likes rather a lot.
  • The Dirty Talking orgasm. This one happens often, frequently combined with one of the others. It usually starts with me weaving a verbal fantasy about what a slut SD is (meant in a 100% positive way) and how many people are watching/waiting/joining in her performance. At some point, she will join in this word-weaving, to our mutual pleasure.
  • The Agreeable orgasm. These aren’t as common as they used to be – perhaps because SD is less agreeable and more of a bitch these days LOL. You know the one I mean – where your partner says “Yes!” repetitively as they’re coming.
  • The Anal orgasm. This is a hard one to describe. Silverdrop is typically quieter but more intense when having orgasms through anal sex – which we aren’t at all interested in, as our faithful reader knows.
  • The G Spot orgasm. These orgasms often result in me having to hold SD down to the bed – they get physical with writhing and other fun stuff. If my cock is inside her at the time, it makes for an interesting ride.
  • The End of the World orgasm. These are the ones where we worry about the neighbours calling the cops. SD is naturally a screamer during her biggest orgasms. We often have to use my hand or the pillow to muffle her. They always trigger a massive (and noisy) orgasm from me, too.

SilverHubby’s:

  • The Dirty Talking orgasm. Same as Silverdrop’s above.
  • The “I’m coming!” orgasm. I do not think about the noises I’m making or the things I’m saying during sex typically – it’s natural, not an act. I have noticed, although it was SD who pointed it out to me first, that I often say “I’m coming!” just before I do. SD laughingly points out that, except for anal, she can always tell when I’m about to explode, whatever we’re doing.
  • The growling/Taz orgasm. SD likens me to Taz, the cartoon character, for our own silly reasons. Anyway, I often growl during sex, particularly when it’s rough, hard and fast. I lose all words and go to what I think of as the animal place, often using SD purely for my own pleasure. Of course, being a submissive masochist, SD rather likes this about me.
  • The Oh That Was a Surprise orgasm. These usually happen when we’re doing something new. The first time SD pegged me, my first prostate orgasm are two examples. SD tells me my noises then sound almost surprised in nature. Which is probably true, as my brain very actively processes new information as it tries to decide what to do with it, and whether it likes it or not.
  • Which is different to the “That jumped out from behind a rock!” orgasm. I am 52 now, and while my libido has only reduced slightly with age, my ability to have many orgasms per session is almost gone  🙁  Sometimes, even though I am feeling intense pleasure from whatever we are doing, it feels like there will be no orgasms forthcoming (which is ok, our sex has never been orgasm-centric anyway). However, at these times, an orgasm sometimes explodes out of me with little or no warning. Typically, one of us will then say “That jumped out from behind a rock!”

Previous posts from So I asked SilverHubby here

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Something for the weekend

#SinfulSunday – Waiting With Cold Feet

This shot was taken a few years ago (short hair at one end, none at the other).  🙂

SilverHubby Likes to ge me trussed up and then leave me for an undetermined (by no-time-sense-me anyway) amount of time to ‘stew’ in my thoughts. I am usually very wet by the time he returns and actually touches me – “Like a hot knife through butter.” is one phrase he has used for just how easily I can be penetrated at these times.

I get cold feet!


Sinful Sunday
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