Sugasm #118
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 #119? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
An Erotic Story…Samson and Delilah “Now how exactly does one go about seducing a preacher?”
A Kiss “Then, the lulling low roar of your voice falls away and we are both leaning forward, transfixed.”
Clif & Lydia Drop Over The Edge “She nervously giggled and lowered her lashes. ”
Mr. Sugasm Himself The Secret of Playboy Legs
Editor’s Choice The Carnival of Feminists 53: Call for submissions
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Handball As A Contact Sport
I was lying on my right side with my left leg in the air. The dozens of clothespins on my breasts and labia hurt, but I barely noticed them because every iota of my attention was focused on my asshole. That was where the Boyfriend was directing his attentions--his right hand slathered with Crisco, shoving more and more of it inside me, slowly working his fingers in past the inner sphincter. I wanted to rub my clit, but I couldn't get to it around all the clothespins, and anyway, my left hand was busy holding my leg up and my right hand was trapped underneath me. My eyes were closed and I wasn't seeing anything but swirling colors, my own private light show broadcast on the backs of my eyelids.
Every time I thought I couldn't take another moment of it, he'd back out just a little and then I'd be begging him to come back. I was moaning and and writhing under his hand, my breath coming in jagged little gasps, wanting this to be the time that his fist finally slid into my ass. Periodically he'd rotate his hand so that he could wiggle his fingers against a different bit of internal geography and I'd scream.
I don't know how long we were at it; we'd already been playing for an hour or more and I was so wet, I could feel my inner labia sliding together, all slick with my juices. Suddenly I felt his hand slide in just a tiny little fraction more, and just then, I was sure it was the moment of truth and that he was going to slip past that thumb knuckle and I'd feel his fist pressed up against the wrong side of my backbone--and I was terrified.
"I'm scared! I'm scared!" I opened my eyes and sought desperately to connect with his for reassurance. He slid his fingers back out and immediately I missed them and wanted them back, even with the tears sliding down my cheeks.
He fucked my ass a while longer, eventually bringing out the big black cock that always takes so much warmup: it slid right in without the tiniest bit of resistance. He told me afterward that he hadn't been anywhere near close to slipping the last knuckle in when I'd gotten scared, but it doesn't matter. I'd sure thought he was right on the brink.
Someday, maybe.
Every time I thought I couldn't take another moment of it, he'd back out just a little and then I'd be begging him to come back. I was moaning and and writhing under his hand, my breath coming in jagged little gasps, wanting this to be the time that his fist finally slid into my ass. Periodically he'd rotate his hand so that he could wiggle his fingers against a different bit of internal geography and I'd scream.
I don't know how long we were at it; we'd already been playing for an hour or more and I was so wet, I could feel my inner labia sliding together, all slick with my juices. Suddenly I felt his hand slide in just a tiny little fraction more, and just then, I was sure it was the moment of truth and that he was going to slip past that thumb knuckle and I'd feel his fist pressed up against the wrong side of my backbone--and I was terrified.
"I'm scared! I'm scared!" I opened my eyes and sought desperately to connect with his for reassurance. He slid his fingers back out and immediately I missed them and wanted them back, even with the tears sliding down my cheeks.
He fucked my ass a while longer, eventually bringing out the big black cock that always takes so much warmup: it slid right in without the tiniest bit of resistance. He told me afterward that he hadn't been anywhere near close to slipping the last knuckle in when I'd gotten scared, but it doesn't matter. I'd sure thought he was right on the brink.
Someday, maybe.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Office Supplies
Most days, I work alone in the mornings in a little office off the beaten path, then after lunch, I go to another office and work with a bunch of other people. I like this arrangement--it gives me a nice mix of solitude and companionship. I work well on my own, but it can be easy to get distracted, so having to pull my share in the second half of the day helps keep me on track.
I do a lot of filing, sorting, and organizing in the mornings. It requires minimal brain power, so my mind wanders. I listen to my iPod, sneak online for sanity breaks, munch on junk food, and occasionally gossip with people who come in to ask questions or drop off more records for me to file. Nobody really comes in much after the morning rush where they all drop off their stacks of paperwork for me to sort.
I've been so horny lately. One day last week, it was driving me crazy. I found myself playing around with a binder clamp... I stuck it on my finger and damn, it was mean. I couldn't help myself--I had to try sticking it on my nipple. Nobody was around, nobody could see me, what could it hurt? I put it on over my shirt, working the edges of it back behind my nipple rings, and slowly allowed it to close. It hurt, but it actually wasn't so bad. I picked up another one and tried it on the other nipple. I liked it.
I couldn't really leave them stuck on the outside of my shirt, though; guaranteed, that would be the time the Big Boss decided to stick his head in and ask me a question. I didn't really want to put them directly on my skin, so I settled for pulling them both off and slipping them on over my bra, under my shirt. They made little tents under the fabric, but I was pretty sure I could cover them with my sweater if I had to in a pinch.
(Get it? In a pinch? Ha ha, I slay me.)
It didn't take long for the clips to make me way more distracted than I'd started out. I leaned over the desk as if I was reaching for the hole punch on the back of it, leaning all of my weight on the clips which were resting on the edge of the desk. Ohmigod. I was becoming very aware of my pussy as I did this. I don't usually feel myself getting wet or specifically know that my clit is hard, I just start to feel a kind of pressure there that tells me she's awake and hungry. I twisted and tweaked the clips, squeezing the levers on them so they alternately loosened and tightened again, and I was beginning to look around the office for something to take to the bathroom with me to fill my greedy, grasping cunt when the door opened and in walked a woman from down the hall to tell me that it was her last day--she was leaving for Toronto and she'd come to say goodbye.
OK, it's one thing to shrug my sweater over the little tents in my shirt while I'm hiding behind my desk... it's another thing to have to stand up and hug somebody. I'd worked with this woman for five years, and we'd already had a big going-away party for her, and I couldn't possibly let her go without a hug and maybe a tear or two. There was no way I could get the clips off with her standing right there looking at me. I had to pull my sweater over me, turn my body sideways a little, give her a weird straight-girl hug which must have made her wonder what was up with me because I never hug like that, and hope for the best.
It seemed to do the trick well enough. We said our goodbyes and she went off to say her farewells to the folks in the next office. As for me, I wasn't so wound up anymore. I slipped the clips off my nipples (ouch!) and put them back in the drawer for another time.
I do a lot of filing, sorting, and organizing in the mornings. It requires minimal brain power, so my mind wanders. I listen to my iPod, sneak online for sanity breaks, munch on junk food, and occasionally gossip with people who come in to ask questions or drop off more records for me to file. Nobody really comes in much after the morning rush where they all drop off their stacks of paperwork for me to sort.
I've been so horny lately. One day last week, it was driving me crazy. I found myself playing around with a binder clamp... I stuck it on my finger and damn, it was mean. I couldn't help myself--I had to try sticking it on my nipple. Nobody was around, nobody could see me, what could it hurt? I put it on over my shirt, working the edges of it back behind my nipple rings, and slowly allowed it to close. It hurt, but it actually wasn't so bad. I picked up another one and tried it on the other nipple. I liked it.
I couldn't really leave them stuck on the outside of my shirt, though; guaranteed, that would be the time the Big Boss decided to stick his head in and ask me a question. I didn't really want to put them directly on my skin, so I settled for pulling them both off and slipping them on over my bra, under my shirt. They made little tents under the fabric, but I was pretty sure I could cover them with my sweater if I had to in a pinch.
(Get it? In a pinch? Ha ha, I slay me.)
It didn't take long for the clips to make me way more distracted than I'd started out. I leaned over the desk as if I was reaching for the hole punch on the back of it, leaning all of my weight on the clips which were resting on the edge of the desk. Ohmigod. I was becoming very aware of my pussy as I did this. I don't usually feel myself getting wet or specifically know that my clit is hard, I just start to feel a kind of pressure there that tells me she's awake and hungry. I twisted and tweaked the clips, squeezing the levers on them so they alternately loosened and tightened again, and I was beginning to look around the office for something to take to the bathroom with me to fill my greedy, grasping cunt when the door opened and in walked a woman from down the hall to tell me that it was her last day--she was leaving for Toronto and she'd come to say goodbye.
OK, it's one thing to shrug my sweater over the little tents in my shirt while I'm hiding behind my desk... it's another thing to have to stand up and hug somebody. I'd worked with this woman for five years, and we'd already had a big going-away party for her, and I couldn't possibly let her go without a hug and maybe a tear or two. There was no way I could get the clips off with her standing right there looking at me. I had to pull my sweater over me, turn my body sideways a little, give her a weird straight-girl hug which must have made her wonder what was up with me because I never hug like that, and hope for the best.
It seemed to do the trick well enough. We said our goodbyes and she went off to say her farewells to the folks in the next office. As for me, I wasn't so wound up anymore. I slipped the clips off my nipples (ouch!) and put them back in the drawer for another time.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Butt Seriously
The blood on the toilet paper doesn't scare me anymore. It used to. I remember panicking more than once, sitting home alone, afraid, wondering whether I should go to the hospital but worried about embarrassing myself. Wait a little while, I'd tell myself, and if it gets worse then go. Words like perforated rectum and peritonitis and horrible death would run through my head. In the end, I'd always fall asleep eventually, and by morning there would be no more blood and I'd feel sheepish but relieved to realize that it was nothing serious.
I've been sticking things up my butt for as long as I can remember. In childhood, anything from a Q-tip to a pencil to the handle of a pair of scissors was fair game. I didn't know there was anything unusual or taboo about it--I just knew it felt good. As a teen, deeply embarrassed about my sexuality, I tried to force myself to stop... but within a week, or maybe two, I'd always end up giving in. It was like a compulsion.
As an adult, immersed in a sex-positive culture, I'm not shy about most of my proclivities anymore. Oh, I have one or two that I'm not ready to shout from the rafters, and I'm sure they'll find their way into this blog eventually, but I no longer hesitate to tell people I like it in the rear.
I've been awfully horny lately, and today the magic 8 ball in my brain kept turning up anal. I couldn't wait to get home. I daydreamed the workday away, rushed impatiently through errands, and finally found myself at home, alone, free to indulge my desire.
There's this thing that I do sometimes, when I'm by myself and the the mood strikes me. Partnered sex is always more self-conscious to some degree, but solo I don't have to worry about what anyone else thinks of me or the mess that I make. I like to lay out a big towel and a lot of toys, grab a bottle of baby oil or a bowl with a big gob of cold Crisco, and see just how far I can stretch that little pink pucker.
The more I play with my ass, the hotter I get. Tonight I started with a little acrylic dildo, slim and slick, baby oil squirted along its length. Once things were slippery, that toy practically fell in all by itself. I moved from that to a string of anal beads, then to a larger rubber dildo, then to an acrylic bloopy toy, then back to the first dildo, then to a glass Coke bottle I perverted years ago. I filled the bottle with two inches of baby oil and tried to pour it into my ass, but the oil stayed stubbornly in the bottle even when I upended it entirely, so eventually I trotted to the kitchen, where I found an empty plastic soda bottle. I poured the oil into that, stuck the neck up my ass, and squirted it in. Feeling the cool liquid fill me, I nearly came right then.
Suffice it to say that I made a hell of a mess. I was at it for an hour and a half, and by the time I was done, the towel was smeared with baby oil and shit and mashed banana and perhaps even a trace of blood--and so was I. I was slippery and smelly from my tits to my ankles and I didn't care. By the time I finally allowed myself to come--clothespins on my nipples, a two-inch-thick wooden truncheon up my ass and cradled between my feet, a vibrator on my clit--nothing nothing nothing else mattered.
A long, hot bubble bath, a book, a bowl of spaghetti and a lewd phone call to the Boyfriend... it's been a very nice evening. I may have to produce an encore before bidding this night adieu.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sugasm #116
Sugasm #116
January 28th, 2008 by Vixen
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 #117? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
In Case Of Fire “His hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me close - easily, no effort at all, letting me feel the power of his arms and the warm puff of his breath against my ear.”
It was a long night… “I gasped as he slowly pushed in one finger, slippery with oil, and began to wiggle it and spread me open.”
Sex Worker Confessions: Gracie Passette “But underneath it all, sex workers are all about bridging, in body & soul, word & deed, the irreconcilable differences between realities and desires.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself The Persian Kitty Alternative
Editor’s Choice Baker’s Birthday
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
January 28th, 2008 by Vixen
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 #117? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
In Case Of Fire “His hand slid around the back of my neck and pulled me close - easily, no effort at all, letting me feel the power of his arms and the warm puff of his breath against my ear.”
It was a long night… “I gasped as he slowly pushed in one finger, slippery with oil, and began to wiggle it and spread me open.”
Sex Worker Confessions: Gracie Passette “But underneath it all, sex workers are all about bridging, in body & soul, word & deed, the irreconcilable differences between realities and desires.”
Mr. Sugasm Himself The Persian Kitty Alternative
Editor’s Choice Baker’s Birthday
More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Cock
Lately I've been obsessed with cock. With rubber cock, specifically, and sucking it in particular.
Don't call it fake. It might not have nerves and blood vessels running through it, but it's no less real to the dyke who wears it than if it were made of flesh and blood. When I lick my lips while looking up at her from under my lashes, then lean in and slowly wrap my hungry mouth around the fat head of her hard cock, believe me--she feels it.
Blue and I go back a ways. His wasn't the first dyke cock I ever sucked, but it was possibly the most riveting. I was in thrall to him and even after several years of life's ups and downs, that hasn't changed. He pulls my hair and I'm all his, just like that. Everything else and everyone else disappears. I could easily disappear into him, if he'd let me, but he won't. That's probably a good thing.
But oh, I love his cock. It's not about the physical prosthesis settled on his pubic bone; I don't think I've sucked the same one twice yet. But no matter what he's got there, I mean even if he strapped a banana on under his jeans, I just want to fall onto it like I haven't eaten in a month. I forget to flirt. I forget to try to show some style. I just want it, want it all, want it all right now.
He knows me so well. He knows when to push me, his hands in my hair, pulling my head down on his cock till his zipper scrapes my nose and holding me there forcefully until my gag reflex or my desperate need for air forces me to struggle. I'm overcoming both of those obstacles with practice, though--the last time he pushed me, he was surprised. He needed a bigger dick that night if he wanted to choke me with it. He made up for it, though, with cruel clamps on my nipples, pressed against his knees as I worked, and strong hands around my throat. Just the way I like it.
I saw him again last night, even though he was hundreds of miles away. Condom in my mouth, I slid it down over the head of his cock so smoothly, all the way down the shaft--hungry, starving, both of us. He moaned a little. I heard the creak of his leather pants as he settled back on the bed to give me access. I felt his body rocking under me, felt the familiar tightening of his abdomen as he came again and again, abusing my throat with quick, sharp thrusts leading up to each orgasm. I struggled to breathe. I gagged and drooled, the thick mucus and saliva dripping off my chin, down his cock, onto the new white comforter, leaving a stain. His hands tightened their grip on my hair as he growled pet names at me: Cock-sucker. Filthy pig. Greedy cum whore. You like that, don't you, babe? Take it all now. That's right--suck. Good girl. His breath came faster and faster until finally, eyes closed, body bucking, he pulled my face down hard and held me there, retching, gasping for breath as he exploded in one final cathartic climax.
I couldn't hold it then--that last thrust was just too much, and I turned my head to the side as a small flood of spit and snot rolled out of my throat. It landed in my hand, on the comforter, on the rug next to the bed: slippery, warm, feeling just exactly like cum. It didn't smell. A little revolted at myself, I scooped it up off the rug, smeared it all over my cunt, my ass, the cock I'd just been sucking. I rolled over and slid that cock up my ass to the hilt, and then I jerked off like my life depended on it. It was 3:30 in the morning. Blue, wherever he was--I hope he dreamed of me.
Don't call it fake. It might not have nerves and blood vessels running through it, but it's no less real to the dyke who wears it than if it were made of flesh and blood. When I lick my lips while looking up at her from under my lashes, then lean in and slowly wrap my hungry mouth around the fat head of her hard cock, believe me--she feels it.
Blue and I go back a ways. His wasn't the first dyke cock I ever sucked, but it was possibly the most riveting. I was in thrall to him and even after several years of life's ups and downs, that hasn't changed. He pulls my hair and I'm all his, just like that. Everything else and everyone else disappears. I could easily disappear into him, if he'd let me, but he won't. That's probably a good thing.
But oh, I love his cock. It's not about the physical prosthesis settled on his pubic bone; I don't think I've sucked the same one twice yet. But no matter what he's got there, I mean even if he strapped a banana on under his jeans, I just want to fall onto it like I haven't eaten in a month. I forget to flirt. I forget to try to show some style. I just want it, want it all, want it all right now.
He knows me so well. He knows when to push me, his hands in my hair, pulling my head down on his cock till his zipper scrapes my nose and holding me there forcefully until my gag reflex or my desperate need for air forces me to struggle. I'm overcoming both of those obstacles with practice, though--the last time he pushed me, he was surprised. He needed a bigger dick that night if he wanted to choke me with it. He made up for it, though, with cruel clamps on my nipples, pressed against his knees as I worked, and strong hands around my throat. Just the way I like it.
I saw him again last night, even though he was hundreds of miles away. Condom in my mouth, I slid it down over the head of his cock so smoothly, all the way down the shaft--hungry, starving, both of us. He moaned a little. I heard the creak of his leather pants as he settled back on the bed to give me access. I felt his body rocking under me, felt the familiar tightening of his abdomen as he came again and again, abusing my throat with quick, sharp thrusts leading up to each orgasm. I struggled to breathe. I gagged and drooled, the thick mucus and saliva dripping off my chin, down his cock, onto the new white comforter, leaving a stain. His hands tightened their grip on my hair as he growled pet names at me: Cock-sucker. Filthy pig. Greedy cum whore. You like that, don't you, babe? Take it all now. That's right--suck. Good girl. His breath came faster and faster until finally, eyes closed, body bucking, he pulled my face down hard and held me there, retching, gasping for breath as he exploded in one final cathartic climax.
I couldn't hold it then--that last thrust was just too much, and I turned my head to the side as a small flood of spit and snot rolled out of my throat. It landed in my hand, on the comforter, on the rug next to the bed: slippery, warm, feeling just exactly like cum. It didn't smell. A little revolted at myself, I scooped it up off the rug, smeared it all over my cunt, my ass, the cock I'd just been sucking. I rolled over and slid that cock up my ass to the hilt, and then I jerked off like my life depended on it. It was 3:30 in the morning. Blue, wherever he was--I hope he dreamed of me.
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Welcome to my blog. This is intended as an anonymous repository for fantasies, exaggerations, uncomfortable truths and outright lies generated by my sexual subconscious. Read along if you like.
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