#SinfulSunday – celebrate

This week’s image doesn’t seem very sinful athe first sight.  However there is something that still feels transgressive about showing my stomach even after all the work I have done in the gym and on loving my body as it is. 

I used to feel I should cover it up, that it was a part of me that was long past its ‘good to look at phase’ duem to lumps and bumps and stretch marks.

These days I am positively exhibitionist in comparison. I strip off willy-nilly in changing rooms.  I no longer undress under my clothes. Sometimes I even admire myself in the mirrors at the gym and take the occasional photograph.
So this Sunday  join me in celebrating a body that is loved and taken care of, that has given pleasure and life to me and others, that I intend to inhabit to the full, to the end, whether that’s considered virtuous or sinful 💋

Click on the lips below to see the others taking part this week.

Sinful Sunday

Ķ#SinfulSunday – darkness

Imagine a clear bright evening. The sun has set.  The night is closing in.

I am seized by a desire to take my clothes off so that I can experience the silkiness of the darkness on my skin.

It dances over me as I raise my arms to let it caress me. It’s at times like this I love my home and its solitude. I even love it when it rains.

Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this week 💋

Sinful Sunday

#Sinful Sunday – bath


A night away gives the opportunity for a decadent  pleasure – a bath filled with bubbles.

A glorious snapshot of a divine time spent living, laughing and loving 💋❤💋
Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this week.

Sinful Sunday

#SinfulSunday – bound

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The prompt this week is B and I have chosen another of the pictures from my weekend of rope in August.  Due to my no face picture policy you can’t see the expression that the intensity of holding this position had on my face but believe me it was intense.

The rope bisecting my body was attached to my hair. I was on tiptoes, my arms aching as I breathed heavily to process the sensations and maintain the pose.

Bound and held 💋

Pic by Cruisier

Rope by Nathan Zuberi

Click on the lips below for more Sunday Sinfulness

Sinful Sunday

Playing house

Remember the house corner in first year Infants?

A corner of the classroom which was divided from the rest of the classroom with a partition to give the third wall.  Open at the front and filled with infant sized furniture, equipment and dolls?

My memory is of watching others play there, mainly girls putting dolls to bed, pretending to wash up and sending the boys who wanted to play with them on shopping errands for bread and milk.  They focused on fussing around with the baby, changing its clothes, showing it off and taking it for walks and in the interaction between those they had agreed to play house with.

Playing in the house was synonymous with pairing up, either with another girl or boy and sometimes with two couples.  As a result occasionally there would be some kind of muffled scuffling and whispering at the back of the corner behind the little curtain that cordened off another part of it or a fully fledged fight with prams being upset and doll’s arms pulled out of their sockets.  It was always soon broken up by a teacher and that house play session was brought abruptly to a close.

Even at the young age, I went to school at four years and a month, I could see that others approached couple dynamics from a different starting point to me.  The girls in the school house were the boss.  They regularly teamed up with another girl and a willing boy and issued orders and instructions about what was going to happen and how the play was going to be structured and enjoyed.  This was at odds with my experience since in my house my dad was the boss, it seemed the natural state of things and I wondered at how they thought they were up to this job.  My dad clearly didn’t think my mum was and my mum agreed with him, deferring to him always and never making a decision without checking it with him first.  I adored my father and with him as my male role model I knew with absolute certainty that I did not want any of the boys at school to boss me around although I was equally absolutely certain that I didn’t want to play with any of the ones who could be bossed by me either. It left me in a kind of hinterland though, uncertain of where I stood with regard to coupledom, and uneasy with the role that seemed to be assigned to me for the future but unable to fathom a way to gain the easy assurance of capability those house playing mummies seemed to have so effortlessly.

I didn’t play in the house corner often although I wanted to.   It wasn’t the the dolls or the boys or the house play with others, the interplay of narratives and creation of a shared reality that I saw played out each day that I longed for as I watched from the library corner. I wanted access to the house, the ironing board and the tiny china.  My palms itched to sort, to straighten, to clean and bring order to the slightly grubby well used space.  I wanted to make the house at peace with its disordered self, with the half opened packets of child sized cereal and sweets left strewn around the shelves and with the garishly painted papier mache fruit in a fruit bowl on its side in the baby’s cot.  I wanted to make the house shine.  I wanted the house.

Thinking about this makes me realise what an impact having to leave my house had on me almost two years ago.  It was truly my first love, my creature, my adored thing. Also that my ex husband  was not a boy to play house with.  He didn’t understand the desire, the need to make a house shine.  It was not a good pairing.

The house that I live in now is spacious, well-worn and a little neglected.  It has and always had the potential to be wonderful but with my previous housemate it felt more like lodging.  I was surrounded by his furniture and equipment, he dominated the space, feeling entitled to live in it exactly as he wanted but it was not where his heart lay as he was working out time to retirement and relocation to his real house and real life.   His moving on has meant that I am fully inhabiting the house with a housemate who is equally passionate about creating a home. We discuss projects and he gets out his toolbox.  He is a willing participant in plans for improvement and beautiful space creation.  His rules, whilst not being mine are close enough for jazz.  He knows how to play house.

That truly makes me happy.  I am finally playing house.

 

 

 

Elust 85

Elust 85

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Photo courtesy of Cheeky Minx

Welcome to Elust 85

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #86 Start with the rules, come back September 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

I am so honoured to be one of the judges’ choices this month.  Particularly since this piece is raw and so hard to write. It feels worth the struggle to get it out when others whose opinion I respect and whose writing I love, appreciate it.

Use
Hot
The Case of the Purloined Panti

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Inspection Zone
Date with prey

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Voyeur

~ So much more goodness below ~

Erotic Fiction

Alleyway
After Dark
Night World Flash Fiction
THE PUNISHMENT ROOMS
HELPLESS, BOUND AND SUBJECT – Part 1
Temper temper
How to Start Super Sex
Nobody Comes Looking For Me
it was time to play

Erotic Non-Fiction

Cunnilingus. The Most Special Intimate Kiss
Nastya is nasty
“Do you want to cum in my mouth?” A Memoir
Humiliation: Raylene’s caning 2

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Come as you are…
A Case for Good Men
Changing Labels
10 Commandments of Courteous Casual Sex
The Aftermath
I miss you

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Formative Kink: “Tanya, the Lotus Eater”
At his feet
Consent In Gorean Culture

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Manicured

~ Come back next month for more lusty sexiness ~

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#SinfulSunday – touch


I am brushing up my masturbation skills after a long time reliance on my wand.  I love it, don’t get me wrong, but I feel myself reducing the process to a certain outcome and that feels at odds with my current desire to be exploratory.

So. It’s back to the grindstone for me. Want to watch? 😉

Click on the lips below to see who else is having a #SinfulSunday

Sinful Sunday

#SinfulSunday – lazy

I am dogsitting four dogs this weekend and have already been up to see them this morning first time at 5.30 am and then again at 8.30.  

Climbing back into bed with a cup of tea and a good book feels sinful to me! How about you?
Click on the lips below to see who else is taking part this week 💙

Sinful Sunday

The illusive cum – part one

I think I must have spent most of my life edging. Or dead from the waist down.

Given my twitter presence and this blog with its explicitly sexual content and pictures it may surprise you to know that being orgasmic is something that has eluded me for most of my life.

As I drove home from work today, up the shady wooded hill roads and past the cows grazing on golden green grass at the roadside I was remembering, well half remembering, what it was like not to have had an orgasm in my life. It’s a conscious thought because that period extended from my childhood until my late twenties after the breakdown of my first marriage which was orgasmless but did produce two children.

I can remember one moment in my teens of waking up with a hot water bottle between my legs, desperately rubbing against it in what my suddenly wide awake and critical mind called ‘an animal manner’ (what a prig that mind is). I awoke in time to foil the orgasm that was building so beautifully in my pubis which left me empty but what I thought of as ‘fizzing’.  That state of knowing there was a something to be had, a somewhere to be got to but not having a clue where that might be or how to get there.

I never ever touched my clit that I can remember, not in my youth, not in my marriage, not post childbirth, not with a husband, not even by accident such was my aversion to that concept. And it was an aversion born of ignorance, as I had no sense that masturbation was something girls or women did. It wasn’t part of any sex I had experienced although I knew I enjoyed being touched by men. But rubbing me seemed to be much less interesting to them than me rubbing them and I knew they wanted that. I had oral sex once in the fifteen years I was with my husband. It was on a sofa in a borrowed house in Abcoude in Holland where we found a copy of the Joy of Sex and, sufficiently emboldened by the water between us and our friends and families, engaged in an embarrassed silent acting out of the illustrations we saw there. It wasn’t a success and we neither spoke of it nor repeated it again.

The most intimate I would be with myself was to hold my mound in a rounded cupped hand. Somehow that felt comfortingly safe rather than explicit and I could not only contemplate it in my mind I could actually get my hand to do it too.

I do remember being thrilled by the sensation of pulling a heavy and loaded tampon out of myself at the same time as emptying my bladder which I had deliberately allowed to fill to bursting point. The corresponding waves of relief would draw an ‘Oh’ from me and I would sigh as my head leant gently on the toilet wall or door of whatever pub I was in at the time for a few brief moments before once again feeling that I had done something inexplicably rude. Actually even the writing of it seems inexplicably rude but hey, we’re all friends here aren’t we?  As always home was not a place where this experimentation could take place. It could only happen when I was out.

I enjoyed being fingered by boys in parks and cars during my teens. I liked the sensations it provoked, but also the sense of power I felt as they reacted to the fact that I would let them do it. Still no orgasms but that fizzing sensation which sometimes would get to the point of being uncomfortable and a little frightening. Something was waiting. I had no idea what but it was waiting all the same.

My first orgasm was a gift from a university professor at Lancaster University when I was 27 and newly single again. I had gone to visit him and in-spite of the fact that my presence seemed a bit of an imposition on him at times we did. of course, have sex. Ian was the first man who ever went down on me with intent and skill and I was not able to dodge the orgasm that had been building all my life this time. I have never had one like it since either although all orgasms are lovely of course. But this one shook me from my cunt to my toes and went straight to my head and everywhere in between. I sang as I came, the song drawn from me as my ‘Oh’ descended a scale with trills and arpeggios in between until it was in my boots as I groaned in ecstacy.

Having now discovered orgasms I was unwilling to let them go but I still couldn’t bring myself to touch myself with my fingers and so I masturbated with the shower head training the hot water on my clit and occasionally brushing my dangling nipples with my free hand. These orgasms were hard won and required me to spend up to twenty minutes in the bathroom kneeling in the bath, ignoring the shouts and pleas of my daughters outside the door and focussing, really focussing on the sensations and thoughts that those sensations spread through my head and body until I could myself give up to it for a precious couple of seconds and shudder as it traveled through me. I continued to do this after I met my second husband who was an oral sex enthusiast, actually preferring it to fucking a lot of the time, but stopped when my son kicked against the rhythmic contractions of my womb around him as I sighed in the bath. I thought it might be upsetting him.  Even so for the first time I had a sexual relationship in which my orgasms were possible providing I could get to the place where I wanted them.

This I suppose is the point.  I could orgasm but I still at times felt a sense of dread about its looming presence, the desire to orgasm was so tinged with fear of letting go that I as far as I was aware I didn’t need to orgasm. I had spent most of my life thus far without it nudging at me. My sexuality and relationship to my own body was so bound up with seeking male approval and that emotional need was much more important than anything my body might be saying to me. The pregnancy that ensued from my new relationship and the demands of that and my three small children plus the university degree I embarked on at that point meant that cuming was not at the centre of my world. I returned to what I knew best, mothering and being a good wife. Pleasure was not part of that.

Now I see that it had occupied that place for so little time because of how uncomfortable I was with the idea of pleasure being an active and necessary part of a life well lived or even part of a life I wanted. Self pleasuring seemed dangerous, tainted and foreign. I did not recognise it or its relationship to me.

To be continued ….