Oct 192014

When my husband and I first became interested in each other, I had asked him what he found turned him on. He immediately responded with fishnet stockings, and I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

I was saddened by the comment. I had already tried stocking and such, to no avail. The biggest issue: I am slightly shorter than 5 ft (1.524 m) tall, most of that is torso, leaving my legs quite short. I can’t wrap my legs around my husbands waist fully. My friends tease that my pants look more like capri shorts.

stockings 005

I am not patient, but I lay here waiting for him to enter the room, to surprise him in some of his favorite stockings.

So for this particular kink, I fall woefully short (pun intended, of course). Thigh highs go up to crotch and then some, knee highs look like thigh highs – but I have thick thighs so they don’t fit well. Thick legs also interfere with how sexy I thought I would look in fishnets, as I imagined in my mind the netting digging in and my thickness poking out (I have no idea why I believed it this strongly).

Even my feet can be negative when looking for stockings. Most stockings are patterned around the foot, and my feet are the size of a child’s – I don’t shop in adult shoe sections much.

Years and years down the line, I found a pair of fishnet stocking that I thought I could navigate and manipulate to fit on me. And they did! I was finally able to surprise him in something that years ago he said he appreciated seeing on a woman. He let me know how much he found them sexy on me as well. Whenever I put them on, he also can’t help taking a photo or two.

Since then, I’ve purchased a another pair or two of stockings for a garter belt (my newest lingerie adventure). I still have the challenges of short legs, but with practice, it’s getting easier to manipulate the look of them. And now I’m trying to find thigh high and knee high socks too, something I thought I would never be able to wear. His favorite stockings – my first pair – have really opened up this kink.

Oct 172014

Humming softly to herself over the sound of the approaching thunderstorm, she spread out her blanket, laid on her side, and propped her head up on her hand.

Jean Jacques Andre

Jean Jacques Andre

She remembered he said to bring protection, so she reached back and felt for the rounded cover, placed it on her head. A rain hat should be more than adequate protection. As she waited, she found herself daydreaming about their many adventures.

The thunder rolled and she perceived a small shake in the ground. She smelled the rain in the distance, felt the oppressive weight in the air. Her skin was damp.

Another clap of thunder, or was that him? For suddenly he was also laying on his side facing her. The similarity in sounds thrilled her. He chuckled and mussed her hat a bit. “Darling I was thinking of a rain jacket.” He snapped, a clap, and she found her damp skin covered with a tarp which did nothing to make her feel more dry. She began to hear the rain.

She smiled up at him and pulled the jacket off of her side where he slung it over her. He must’ve forgotten jackets go on the torso.

His eyes appraised her approvingly, his hand softly traced her curves.

“Thank you for inviting me. You picked the perfect location.” She expressed her gratitude softly, as if afraid to scare off the storm he ordered so efficiently.

He looked up, beyond her, smiled proudly. His roaming fingers pinched a nipple. “It looks just like a horror movie. I love watching those.”

The downpour began, her body felt just a drop or two and then suddenly water poured from the sky. She sputtered as she looked up in amazement. Rain…she had always wanted to feel rain.

He leaned forward, laughing, and kissed her. The water seeped in between their lips and she tasted the liquid between their sliding tongues. His hand cupped a breast and then slapped it playfully.

She shrieked in surprise and ended the kiss.

“Time to run towards that spooky house over there,” he directed, getting up and helping her to her feet. “They always run into a dilipulated house.”

“And then what?” she shouted over the tempest, curious and turned on. She wished she had watched a horror film to know what happened next.

“A beautiful disaster,” he promised, grinned, and began the chase after her.


 Key Phrase: beautiful disaster

Word Limit: 400

Forbidden Words: dark, scary, pubic, down

Bonus Words: how do you feel in storms?

Extra Credit: tell about a time you should have been more concerned than you were 


**397 words, woohoo, for a minute I thought I was going to go over the word count that I set. That would be a disaster!

Still, I love storms. Every time it rains I have all the windows open and am most often sitting the doorway to the outside, watching it, listening to it, smelling and connecting as much as I can. I am surprised I haven’t lost my love of storms. It’s obvious catching, this feeling, as my once scared son now often alerts me of storms to start opening up the house; he now loves to sit and listen silently (not for long, he is a kid after all) with me.

A time I should have been concerned was meeting a large group of military men, alone, that I had only known previously through online gaming. It was my first time meeting them in public, at a bar hours away in an unfamiliar town,. Getting drunk with them and then going to one of their houses wasn’t the smartest idea. Luckily, they were perfect gentlemen (if doing body shots off of me isn’t pushing the line). It was this experience that began my fascination with the military man, and to trust them in general more than I had previously.

 Posted by at 7:01 am
Oct 152014

Photo courtesy of A to sub Bee

Welcome to Elust #63 -

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 #64? Start with the rules, come back November1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

I am Sexy at Every Size
Censored? Never By My Hand #DarkErotica #BDSM

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Show Me, Daddy
The pride of being a dom

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Erotic Non-Fiction

Two Hours of Bliss
Save the Sheets
All He Could Do Was Moan.
I’ll Have What She’s Having
Attitude on the Autobahn
Go get a toy so you can fuck yourself.

Thoughts and Advice on Kink and Fetish

Why I love my Packer
Tools of the trade
On being a feminist and a dirty little slut
Getting Acquainted
Not Your Fetish
Why Kinky Women Are All Gold-Digging Trash*
Schoolgirls a Lasting Obsession
Kink-Blocked by Burners

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

We Still Have To Work At It
Sex and Motherhood – Part 1
Tips for using sex toys & avoiding infections
How to Have Sex Naked
Bipolar Sex

Erotic Fiction

Oopps Wrong Number
Minister & Mistress
Surprises: A Threesome Story
Door Frame

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Sex, lies, videotape & being a decent person
Two Women One Topic


Rubber Band Brilliance


Stripping away the Shadows


Sweat Slick – An Erotic Sonnet
The Poem Challenge, Day 6: “Owned”
Sixty Years On – A Lusty Limerick
Poetry: I Am….

Writing About Writing

On Writing Daddy Porn
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Oct 142014

A message was recently sent about me… it wasn’t very flattering. In it they attacked everything about me.

“She is actually not that pretty. Without all the makeup, elaborate 50s hair, and creative photography to make her look pretty, she is just a boring fat chick whose boobs look more like “man boobs” on an overweight 12 year old then female breasts.”

Ok, grammatical errors aside, clearly this is intended to be hateful, and body shame me in every way possible.

I don’t Photoshop my pictures. What you see is what you get. I know I’m hot. I’m a pretty girl in a ponytail, and no makeup, and I’m a smoking hot one when I dress up. These comments don’t bother me. They smack of jealously, and clearly people think I AM pretty if they have to use the line “…she’s not even that pretty”.

So, let’s talk about the only thing left. My breasts. Yup, it’s boob time.


My breasts are frankly my biggest chink in the armor. I was born with polycystic ovarian syndrome. It caused me to start menstruating as a CHILD. One of the “symptoms” of PCOS is under developed breasts. I come from a long line of very tiny, very large breasted women… then there’s me. Even with PCOS, I still wear a C cup in most bras. There you go guys who always ask! They’re C’s!. Growing up around the women in my family though, left me with a complex I’ve never been able to shake. It doesn’t help that I’m NOT a tiny girl, so there’s always way too much room in shirts. It makes me cry sometimes to go clothes shopping.

Then there’s shape, and this is the BIGGEST problem for me. They aren’t shaped like porn stars. They’re spaced too far apart, so I buy bras that bully them into place. They aren’t the perfect tear drop, and while my nipples don’t point to the floor, I wish they were higher. I’ve seen women with the same shape as mine, but somehow I don’t hate THEIRS, I just hate mine.

I’ve spent years wanting a boob job. I want wonderful, perfect (in my eyes) breasts like the rest of my family. I WANT TO THROW AWAY MY BRAS AND LET THOSE BABIES FREE! I’m constantly cracking jokes that what men like about me, they could have themselves, for the low low price of $79.99 at Victoria’s Secret.


I’m ashamed of my body.

I’ve grown to love the rest of myself, through years of work, the support of partners, and frankly, Sinful Sunday. The one thing (well two) that I haven’t grown to accept however, are my breasts. Because of that message though, I think it’s time to change that.


If you don’t like me, that’s great, have a nice life. Body shaming makes YOU the asshole, not me. And it seems like no matter which way you go, there’s body shaming everywhere! My partner in crime wrote a post about being body shamed for being such a small target. Meanwhile, other people are shaming me for being curvy and not having huge breasts. It’s ridiculous! I have stood up against people mocking heavier people and been told “oh, YOU’RE not fat. So yeah, you’re a thick girl, but that person was FAT.”


I’m tired of worrying so much about these things, and I’m tired of hearing it. You’re beautiful. You, the person. And we’re all unique, and that’s what makes us fabulous. So to all the girls out there that don’t have perfect breasts, or who feel bad about themselves. Stop. You’re lovely.

the "breast" selfie ever
Set the tatas free.

While this post was off topic for Wicked Wednesday, there are many other wonderful posts about making bad sex, sexy. Click the link below!

Wicked Wednesday

Oct 132014

The ball was to be their last. It was bittersweet.

The dress had so many layers to it, a perfect analogy to how Nicole felt. So much to hide covered in such pretty packaging. She was grateful for the matching burgundy mask, with its sparkling jewels accenting her sparkling tears. She felt stifled it both contraptions and she was done being stifled.

Christophe was to meet her here. She paused at the top of the grand staircase and looked into the hall, feeling flustered at such a daunting task as finding him amongst the crowd below with so much to hide. She snapped open her fan and waved it, hot and overwhelmed. She placed a gloved hand on Henry’s arm, looked up at him and smiled with veiled enthusiasm.

“Shall we?” he gestured to the stairs and slowly led her down into the depths. She tottered on too tight shoes, shoes not even revealed through the pompous fluff yet impractical nonetheless. She shook with too tight strung nerves, and yet Henry seemed oblivious to it all. He was always so composed, her companion. She took her hand back when they reached a more solid foundation, aimlessly moved about the room and made false pleasantries.

A mutual friend asked for a dance, and once again she fought not to stumble, feeling unbalanced. His lips moved, and while she couldn’t see his face, he would still have been like every other man in the room, every man but Christophe.

Out of the corner of her eye as she was being spun around, she thought she saw someone gaze at her intently. She almost missed a step, gripped her partner’s shoulder more tightly than normal. The man grinned at her. She scanned the room, as if nonchalantly, her heart beat capriciously.

And there he was, lopsided grin, ice blue eyes barely visible beneath a black veiled mask, matching dark hair softly curling at the edges of his mask. Her fingers itched.

“Excuse me, I need some air,” she mumbled and without even looking at her dance partner, disengaged and walked off of the dance floor, thoughtlessly drifting among the dancers towards a side of the room, trying to keep her roaming eyes focused on the porch behind. The crowd seemed to cease to exist, and the starry night beckoned her view from the open doors. She stepped out lightly, fresh, warm air soothed her skin and she decided to stroll through the gardens after pausing just a telling moment.

She smelled the earth, the roses and the bushes. She breathed in the sky. She daydreamed of a moment and stopped in the moonlit shadow of a tree. She heard a rustle in the darkness and felt a hand on her shoulder.

Nicole spun around, placed her arms around Christophe. It was so dark that she missed the magnificence of his eyes. Arms were placed around her and she leaned up to kiss him.

How badly she wanted his kisses, his love. Newly awakened passion surged through her and she softly whispered his name while running her hands inside of his jacket.

Arms gripped her upper arms and pushed her into the light. She wanted to see him too and looked up expectantly, only it wasn’t who she was expecting.

“Louis!” her mouth made a moue after the name, unbidden. Henry’s brother.

“And who were you expecting? Who is this Christophe?” his distaste was obvious, even through is mask. He looked nothing like Christophe, not nearly as tall, though just as wide. She cursed her daydreams into creating an illusion of a different man. She said nothing. He gripped one arm hard and shook her, her pile of curls precariously shifting on her head.  “I saw you disappear in the garden and when I approached you, you threw yourself at me!”

“No, you touched me unwarranted.” Her thoughts raced, her blood pounded. “Why did you disturb my peace? Why did you come after me?” She only had one weapon against him, and suddenly everything became apparent. She threw herself at his chest, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him.

He clamped his lips together for just a moment, and then parted them. She felt relieved and tried not to sigh. He stepped back into the shadows of the tree.

The last ball I attended

The last ball I attended and someone I did not arrive with

“The price of your silence,” she stated as she gripped his jacket and began pulling it off. Dark, she pretended it was Christophe as his mouth slanted over hers in a possessive and demanding kiss.

Nicole wondered where Christophe was, if he had followed her as she passed him the room towards the outside, if he had seen Henry’s brother follow her and retreated, or if he was watching her even now. She prayed he wasn’t watching her even now. Men didn’t comprehend the reasons behind a woman’s actions.

And please, she implored silently, let him not see and feel the need to rescue her. That would be far more explaining than she felt capable of.

And in her current situation, Nicole felt quite capable, all of the sudden.

A Darker Flame Badge - S

 Posted by at 11:27 am
Oct 092014
Fire Down Below

Fetmano Alejo’s midsummer stunt Midsummer 2010

Bruce didn’t scream, even though he could feel what he was positive the melting of his shoes, the lick of the fiery tongues from the flame. He was also positive that his penis, that excited member that his lover had just wrapped lips and sucked while caressed the balls before the transfer, was going into hiding so much that no one would be able to see it if anyone was around.

Bruce must’ve been dropped in the wrong place. His lover was so confident of the scene. “Haven’t you seen the old movies of the heathen savages?” he asked of Bruce when the idea was first broached. “I love those movies. They circle a big bonfire naked and screaming.”

Bruce wasn’t screaming at the moment. He also wasn’t circling. He’d worn sneakers – didn’t want to hurt his sensitive feet, prepared himself to be hard and proud and strong, drop to the ground in a perfect crouch, and begin the chant and scuffle around the flames. His lover felt this would be the perfect scene to reflect the movies he loved so much.

Bruce loved him and agreed to the scene.

His feet hit the exact center of the fire, the glowing yellow, orange, and red coals instantly up his legs. He thought he saw his lover, couldn’t even call out for the pain and the blankness overtaking him.

He thought he heard, “sacrifice to the gods,” over the unknown howling, not realizing the noise was coming from his own parched body.


Key Words: Shoes

Flash Fiction Friday

Banned Words: Socks

Word Limit: 238 words

Bonus Words: Get +10 words for each adjective used that means “hot” but isn’t “hot”

 Posted by at 7:18 am
Oct 072014

tmi art Oct 7 2014

Memorable sex is not necessarily amazing sex, though amazing sex is certainly memorable.

Memorable: hard to forget.
Amazing: startlingly impressive.

1. Tell us your top 3 memorable and/or amazing sexual experiences thus far in 2014. 2. What made the encounters memorable/amazing?

My top favorite so far has to be the Slave Hunt. Having people running around in the forest hiding, and then sending out hunters to catch them, bringing them to a whipping post, and having observers play with the prey (within their own set limits listed on the post) was pretty phenomenal. It was a rare experience, and the people who put this on were incredibly organized, and most of all respectful. It was a large group that demonstrated what happens when a community pitches in and works together.

Seeing the play “Spanked” a 50 Shades Parody, and the subsequent ass bruising of my own, was so much fun. The play is hilarious, and though I’ve never read the books, I didn’t need to in order to laugh constantly at this play. I am trying to see it again, and to drag as many people as I can with me.

My husband’s creativity with rope (both for sexual and then just to practice rigging suspensions) is also an amazing experience. We now have a point for suspension in our backyard and over the weekend I was flipping myself upside down in a hip harness he put me in. It’s cool to see his gears turning when he has rope in his hands. He is always so serious, almost grumpy, when tying, but once that’s done it’s all naughty play time (I write about most of the times the rope comes out for sex), and the untying is a wonderful, sensual connection between us.

3. What is memorable and amazing about you?

I am strong, resourceful, and the rock of my family. In a military/chaotic/pulled apart family, it’s nice to have someone support you and figure out new creative ways to make things work.

Bonus: Which of the things listed below should be infectious?
a. smiles
b. wealth
c. laughter
d. good health


How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link totmituesdayblog from your website!

Happy TMI Tuesday!

 Posted by at 6:01 am
Oct 052014

A story of an extraordinary person with exceptional senses.


I wonder how’d she look naked.

She’s practically spilling out of her shirt.

If she moves just a little more, a nipple will pop out.

She’s dressed like my grandma.

Hmm, fun.

Nope, time to give my friend the text.

These are just a few of the things that I hear when I go out on dates, or see someone I feel an attraction to.

Can you imagine what happens if I actually kiss them?

Ugh, all tongue.

I wonder if she can taste the garlic bread I just ate.

I’m going to have my tongue do what I want sex to be like.

That last one had me laughing. (Read it like a really excited kid heading towards a roller coaster, that “whee” kinda glee, that’s how I heard it.) I couldn’t help it, chuckles and even a snort just sort of slipped out my face, causing the most un-sexi-est of separations of tongues to occur. It was okay, I wasn’t that interested in him. Just curious how well he kissed. I had already heard his mind during the date; he didn’t have enough sense to rub two pennies together with. Such a shame such a pretty package held nothing inside of it.

Oh, I’m a telepath. Maybe that would have been more important to state right off the bat. It took me years to convince myself I wasn’t crazy. You want to talk about daddy issues? (Is mommy issues a thing?) Imagine hearing your parents’ every thought! Every time they regretted having me, or every time I made them angry sucked. Don’t get me wrong, most of the time the signals were loving and happy, it was kinda cheating to be loved though- when  you know their thoughts you tried hard to earn to do right.

And as a young child before I could really control tuning out frequencies, it was my parents I most often tuned into. They just thought that I was good at reading body language. And I guess, in a manner of speaking, they were right. But no one wants to know that your mom’s body wants on your teacher. Yuck!

And I have body image issues too. Growing up around other hormonal adolescents wasn’t good for me. I knew when someone was staring at my pimples, when they noticed my nipples were hard during cold mornings, when jumping rope brought more highlight to my bouncing breasts versus my incredible skill at double dutch – I’m kinda proud of that one. Coordination among the gangly awkward teens was a source of pride for myself.

Guess that’s why sex didn’t come about until I was well into adulthood. Tuning out all stations but my own thoughts took just about that long.

But the minute I orgasmed, that first time in my early thirties (times were rough people, don’t judge me), I accidentally shut down my brain enough and tuned into how he viewed my “O face”. Luckily, it wasn’t a bad thought, but I immediately fell down from the heavens I read about and became self conscious. What did my “O face” look like? I tried practicing in the mirror, but honestly, I just thought I looked like an idiot. And maybe it wasn’t my real face at the moment, considering I wasn’t in the moment. Even masturbation is somewhat fake if you’re doing it to see your face at the peak. More like performance art with a heavy dose of curious anxiety.

And another time I cued in on a man thinking of slipping it into my butt. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for trying this activity, but he wasn’t going to even ask. He was just going to sneak attack it. And I’ve read (told you I’m for trying this) that you need lube and stuff, and going poop beforehand I’m sure is necessity. And I hadn’t gone poop yet. And we didn’t have lube. And he wasn’t going to even ask if it was okay!

The propelling myself forward while in doggie style and then reaching around to slap his face may have come as a shock to him, but he shocked me too. And I am sorry, as I am not prone to violence. Not to mention that I try to keep myself neutral whenever I hear someone’s thoughts – being an emotional basket-case of a kid taught me that harsh lesson – so it’s not like I couldn’t have pretended to be done with sex and politely excused myself, but come on!

Nope, he deserved that slap. How’d he like it if someone just slipped something in his back hole without asking? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, my grandpappy always used to say, when trying to teach me how to conduct myself with men, and I betcha that gander wouldn’t be happy with a surprise tool in that shed.

But who knows, he may have liked it…to each their own.

Boy oh boy, do I wish that thoughts stayed to each their own. It’s damned hard getting all butterfly excited about a person and then hearing their thoughts. That shit needs to stay private – there’s a reason why fences are popular – and especially if I want to continue to like the person, I need to keep to my space.

One day, though,  I’m gonna figure out how silence my love interest doing the nasty with me. Maybe if I asked them to hum or something during it, or maybe I could try humming so that I wouldn’t completely lose my focus.

But I think that’s the whole point of sex…to feel so good that your body just builds up to bursting and blows off some steam, and I’d love to just forget trying to remember to keep to my side of the street and not listen in on other’s people business. Even if I am a business partner, as it were, at the time.

Don’t you worry yourself none, I got this. While no piece of cake, practice makes perfect and I am not giving up.

Wicked Wednesday

 Posted by at 7:52 am