Sep 042015

A long time ago, M wrote about me in Sisterly Specific.

I’ve been intending to write about M for some time now. But how to do it? I sometimes feel mere words wouldn’t do an adequate enough job.

Since we were younger, M was apart. She was her own person, even as a teenager. She didn’t need the parents who were lacking in our lives, she frankly got along in life better without them. Starting at 15 M made very real pleas to have the care of me, she could do a better job at it anyway, than any of the dismal arrangement my parents made.

In school we had a trite assignment to write about our heroes, an undertaking I did with relish, pages of all the reasons why, in my eyes, my sister seemed almost mystical.

Not that she was a paragon of virtue…

As we got older, she finally stopped locking me in closets. She got me drunk for the first time at 10, in defiance of our parents being, to borrow a British term, prats. She covered for me when I started my escapades with boys.

She fought fiercely for me. She was the constant I could count on, even when she was going her own way.

She had her daughter young. And when people would gear up for criticism, she shoved it all in their faces by being frankly, a better mother than most. She worked diligently, going to college, working, raising her daughter… She was adulting better than her own parents before she even hit 20. I’m not sure where she got this strength and fortitude from, there were certainly no examples in our family, and that added to the awe in which I regarded her.

Friends and men. They were always drawn to her. M has a quiet vivaciousness. Some mistake her for shy. Nothing could be further from the truth one you get to know her. She flirts with the ease of breathing, artlessly. She’s completely oblivious to the fact that she does so. She’s never jealous of others. Instead she admires their qualities and strives to improve herself. She sees beauty in others, and is never hesitant to compliment them, be they friend or stranger. She sees each person for their own merit, and isn’t influenced by the opinions of others when forming her own… This sometimes drives me batty when I loath someone with the fire of a thousand suns.

M oozes her own sensuality, unintended, but undeniable. She always has. Our mother had the curious inclination to dress her quite scantily as a teenage. Our best guess is she was living vicariously. M never had the desire to show of her body. She was graced with the extremely petite build and large breasts of our forbearers. Which she diligently tried to hide. She has graceful hips that carry her in a seductive sway. She works hard on her body, and jokes that she only does so so that she can eat brownies; a weakness of hers. I truly wish she could see through my eyes, and see how utterly lovely she is for a moment. Instead, she is always working on the next goal, and I think sometimes fails to see the beauty in what she has already.

She’s a beautiful model, but horrible to work with. She has never tried to be a sex kitten, so she has no idea how to do it. She bounces around, and her attempted sultry look makes me giggle. She could never put on a show. If you caught her in an intimate moment, the natural grace and poise shines through. I’ve seen it in the pictures her husband takes of her during those times. Getting her in a studio setting though is fun in the failure, it’s great to see her scamper.

Being the oldest in the family, and my surrogate mother for most of my life, the unsavory habit of being bossy still carries over in adulthood. She’s always been the leader, including in her own family. It comes naturally to her. I frequently thumb my nose at this and scamper wherever I please in my own echo of childhood. Admittedly, many things would be in ruin without her guiding, including this blog. To her goes the credit, the painstaking hard work, and the dedication.

One of my favorite memories from childhood is when M would read her stories to me. She wrote the most amazing stories, and used the vocabulary and language, that was the greatest gift our mother ever gave to us, in exquisite form. Her stories made you FEEL. She seemed to write with such ease, never floundering in a story, but knowing always where it led. This gift has continued and grown, as seen on our blog.

She seems to do everything, including growing in her kink, her career, family, transitions, our blog, with the ease of gliding through water. I tell her all the time she deserves a medal for adulting, a thing I still don’t do well. She’s a normal person, with stress, the horrific allergies our genetics dumped on us, physical ailments. None of these seem to slow her down though. She always makes time for things. She’s always there with help or sage advice, wisdom and guidance.

If you asked me today, to write about one of my heroes, I could surely dust off that old paper from my school girl days, and gladly hand it over, although I might add that the hero I had then is even more so one today.

 Posted by at 9:24 am  Tagged with: ,
Aug 122015

She handled like a Ferrari; all sleek curves and beautiful lines. She was exotic. A man could spend all day fantasizing about being inside her. Smooth supple skin, an irresistible pull to run your hands down her. Cherry red lips, glossy, catching the lights, making your mouth water to even get near her.

Once you turned her on, that’s when the magic happened. She’d purr with delight, letting you know how you’d accelerate her heartbeat, slow her down just to speed her up again. She made you want to show her to the world; shout that she was very rare and all yours. She made you want to take the utmost care of her, something so valuable demanded the best. She was something you’d dream about from boyhood, never dreaming you could make her a reality.

Yeah, she reminded you of your dream car, but nothing in world, really, could compare to her.

Wicked Wednesday

Aug 062015

News flash: I don’t care what you think when it comes to my body and the things I do with it.

I recently miscarried. It was a sad event. I didn’t plan the pregnancy, I didn’t even know it had happened until it was over. I’ve mentioned in another writing, that I have PCOS, I also have other health problems that resulted in the failure of my (ex) husband and my attempts to get pregnant for 5 years, including fertility treatments. So birth control has never been an issue for me, instead I focus on STD prevention. If I’m fluid bonded with someone, then condoms are no longer necessary, and again, birth control hasn’t been a concern.

All of my partners have been aware of the situation, both with my health and my NOT being on birth control. We’ve made informed decisions together.

When the miscarriage was merely suspected, and then when it was confirmed I was pregnant, and later confirmed that I miscarried, I mostly kept it to myself. NOT because I was ashamed, but because it was intensely personal, and particularly heartbreaking for me because I’ve wanted, and tried, to have babies for quite a long time.

However, when I received the bill for my miscarriage from the ER, totaling almost $300,000, my incredulity led me to make a scathing comment on social media.

The sympathy and surprise from friends and family was heartwarming… It was also a bit awkward on some fronts.

I’m not married, but miraculously I was pregnant!

I don’t post about relationships on social media, my dating life is something I keep kind of close to the vest because it does change a bit more than I’d care for people to follow and/or comment on.

So to many an outside observer, this revelation was confusing, surprising, and somewhat alarming! I got veiled comments about not asking me questions, but them being here for me. What questions weren’t answered in the post? I was pregnant, I miscarried… Pretty clear cut circumstances if you ask me. Therefore, the only questions left were shameful ones in their eyes, such as paternity and relationship status.

Who cares?

You can’t just be supportive, or even remain silent?

It’s my body. What I do with it is my business. Who I’m with is my business. BELIEVE IT OR NOT, SINGLE WOMEN CAN HAVE BABIES, AND THAT’S OK.

In a time when I’m heartbroken about what could have been, the last thing I need is someone attempting to make me feel awkward about the “man” situation in my life. Don’t push your views on morality on me, especially at a time like that. It’s unbelievably distasteful to me. If you have a problem or concern about the way I live my life, keep it to yourself. If you feel a burning desire to share with me your concerns, do it at a more appropriate time than when I’m grieving over a miscarriage.

It’s my body, I really don’t give one flying fuck about what someone else thinks about what I do with it.

Jul 152015

I didn’t carry you for long.

In fact, I didn’t even know you were there.

While you struggled to grow and survive, a fight that you lost, I went about my merry way, doing whatever I wanted.

I couldn’t help you with that fight.

When the pain started, and the strange things happening to my body, only then did I know, when the fight was already drawing to a conclusion.

And I fell to the floor, my tears to follow, splashing the ground with heartbreaking sadness.

That is when my fight began.

I wasn’t strong.

I was lost, and helpless.

And suddenly, I was the one being carried.

In strong arms that loved me.

Arms that held me close when the pain was too much.

Arms that soothed me when the tears ran like rivers.

Arms that cocooned me from the pain and the loss.

And the words.

So many were lost to me, I could barely think.

But the one who carried me had all the right ones.

They whispered comfort and love.

About a future where we would be better prepared for the battle, able to help in the fight of survival.

I’m sorry I couldn’t help you then, to see you through into the miracle you could’ve been.

I promise the next time though, you won’t just have me to carry you, with all of my mistakes and ignorance, we’ll have help. Those strong arms with help to carry me, while I carry you.

Wicked Wednesday

Because of a hormonal disorder, I’ve been told my entire life that I would never be able to get pregnant. Apparently I beat the odds, however tragically was unable to carry to term. I wrote this post while going through my miscarriage. Not knowing when, if ever, to post it, the prompt for this week seemed fitting. It’s a bit of a letting go and healing for me. XoXoX

Jul 082015

The prompt for this week’s wicked Wednesday is the lovely F Dot Lenora’s first Sinful Sunday photo. Finally taking my eyes off this great photo, it made me think of my own First Sinful Sunday post.

Sooooo, one upon a time…

The powers that be (read M), decided that we really needed to participate in more memes, and Sinful Sunday was the way to go. I agreed that I loved seeing everyone else’s images, and it sounded like a great idea. That’s when I was informed that I would be the one to do it.

That’s right, I was volun-told to get naked on the internet. M didn’t want to do it.

Let’s go into some comparatives to explain how I felt about this.

M is incredibly beautiful, with an amazing body she got through a combination of hard work and the better end of genetics. We sisters have a joke that if you combined us you’d have the perfect woman. We’d take my face and M’s body and basically rule the male population.

I have a great face, but very far from the ideal body type. In fact,there are certain parts of my body I loathe, like my breasts (I’m working on loving that part of myself). At this point in my life, when first presented with the thought of pictures for our blog, I was still mired in the toxic idea of my body being best left unseen.

I’m a tricky girl. I dress my body immaculately. To me, dressing well was almost like armor. It protected me more from harsh comments about my weight. Being in a town full of cocky young service members drinking to excess, criticisms come frequently, and the person gets more applauded the more hurtful and cutting the remark. I’ve been “oinked” at while at a bar… It’s just one of countlessly degrading examples I could give you.

I had finally hit my stride and style so those instances were less, but it is because of this that I held onto my armor tighter. To be seen in anything other than an immaculate state was to invite others to insult me. I was still at a point in my life when I hid my body as much as possible, even from intimate partners. I think my ex husband saw my naked body in full light maybe a handful of times at best, and we were together for a very long time.

So here’s my incredibly gorgeous sister, informing me that I had to bare all, while COMPLETELY leaving out my (in my opinion at the time) only redeeming feature; I couldn’t include my face because M is extra vigilant about anonymity.

I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t see how my body could possibly bring in more views or help the blog in any way. I had NEVER even taken a semi nude photo. The most anyone ever got was cleavage. Now suddenly, I was supposed to strip down for an internet that is not exactly known for its positivity, just look at comments on YouTube!

M is bossy. It’s ingrained in her older sister genes. She is used to getting her way, and it really doesn’t matter what the baby sister has to say. (And thank goodness for that or our blog would’ve fallen to ruin long ago!)

So I had to do it.

The image I chose to post was extremely tame. Merely a shot of my hips and waist, covered in lovely boy shorts. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how incredibly nervous I was once that photo went live. I’m an anxious little thing, and spent the whole day in full panic mode. That’s when the comments started coming in…

The positive feedback on that photo was overwhelming. Much like how I’ll never forget how nervous I was, I will never forget how amazing it felt to see those comments. By now it’s only been a bit over two years, but the changes that occurred in me occurred with lightening speed. I don’t think anyone should base their self worth over validation through others, but at that time it was so ingrained in me to be ashamed of my body, that it took that outside positivity to wake me up. It was like a lightbulb going off.

The positive reception of that first photo inspired me to push, and push I did! Quickly I was showing more and more. Still positive, still mind blowing to have people compliment me on the very thing I hated the most. I’m thankful now that M was so strict on showing absolutely no face. There was no was for me to try to justify the comments merely because I have a pretty face. It was only my body. Eventually I wheedled her into allowing me to sneak in bits of face for artistic merit, but that was long after I had already gone so far into what I was comfortable showing that I discovered that HD photography means you find out that you have peach fuzz near your anus, and get to go on the delightful journey of learning how best to shave it. (I HAVE since discovered the best way, and it’s forcing your male roommate to do it for you!)

My own growth inspired M to step off that same ledge, and now it’s anyone’s guess as to which one of us is featured in our weekly Sinful Sunday posts. We still keep it anonymous over which sister is pictured to help protect anonymity and careers, and you are definitely seeing a mix of us.

Now I love my body. It’s funny, but I’ve lost a lot of weight and haven’t gotten around to any serious photo shoots since. You’d think with my past discomfort I’d be snapping photos like a mad woman, but I haven’t felt pressure. I already loved my body before I lost the weight, had already been turned into a complete exhibitionists, and already started demanding the lights be left on during sex. I didn’t need outside validation anymore. I had started doing the photos for my own gratification very quickly after those first few photos. I had already started seeing, and appreciating, the art you could create with a camera, your body, and some creativity.

I’m so excited now when I see people making their first posts to Sinful Sunday, and I wonder if they experienced the same trepidation at first. I get really excited to see the journey they go on as they discover THEMSELVES through photography, just as how it took photography to spark my own journey.

Wicked Wednesday

 Posted by at 1:29 pm
Jun 302015

The kink of the week this time is chains. With M going on vacation, she asked if I wanted it. Well I’ve never used chains. The first thing to pop into my head was Fleetwood Mac. I grew up with my parents listening to them. I quickly pondered if I could argue a case for the band being a fetish, but figured I should give a more serious effort to staying true to the prompt.

Clearly the easiest way for me to handle the topic would be a photo. Luckily for me, I have plenty of kinky friends I could call on to borrow some chains from for the photo.

The problem came from, being the queen of fail, I got sick. With the hip flaring up, and the cornucopia of meds I was on for being sick, a sexy photo shoot was a bit out of my reach.

Luckily, my chemical cocktail lead to some creativity. I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I happen to have some AMAZING artistic skills. *giggle*. If I couldn’t TAKE the picture, then maybe I could MAKE the picture. The fruits of my painstaking labor are featured below.

Bust size may be a slight exaggeration...

Bust size may be a slight exaggeration…

All jokes aside, chains is something I’ve been curious about for awhile. To me, the binds seem more intense. The weight of the chain playing a factor in the mindset during the scene has intrigued me. I’m also fascinated by the fact that I see many people use chains for temperature play, but curiously, always for COLD. I’m interested to see how they would be for hot temperature play simply because I’ve really never seen it.

There aren’t many big ticket items left on my sex bucket list. Now there’s small peripheral things, like chains, left. This prompt has brought that subject back into the forefront of my curiosity, and I will certainly keep you posted on what shenanigans I get into with some lovely chains.

While this wasn’t the most informative post on the wonders of chains in kink, (although I hope the drawing made it worth the read), click below to find some bloggers who definitely have a better grasp on them.
Kink of the Week

Jun 242015

I’m an all or nothing kind of girl… This rarely, if ever, works out for me. So one day I woke up and decided that I was going to be healthy! I immediately changed my diet and embarked on a very intimate relationship with a treadmill. I didn’t ease into anything. I would basically go to the gym until I dropped, or my feet started bleeding again. It turns out, a body isn’t meant to do those kinds of things.

Interesting fact on anatomy:

Did you know that there’s more than one muscle in your butt? In fact, there’s this vertical muscle that makes your body pivot. It’s called the piriformis. The way it’s set up is, your sciatic nerve, the one that starts in your lower back and goes all the way to your feet runs directly behind it. For some people though, the nerve runs through it.

Back to my story…

One day, I’m going hard on the treadmill and suddenly my leg just goes OUT. Hit the floor, horrible pain in my ass, excruciating. I can’t walk. Trip to the Dr, lots of tests, I’ve torn my piriformis, this evil little muscle I didn’t even know existed.

Now, I’m the queen of all things fail, so does my nerve go behind my muscle like most human beings? Of course not. It goes through it.

I’d give you a list of everything I suddenly couldn’t do, but we’d be here all day. Let’s sum it up with everything. It hurt to do everything. The most meddlesome part of all this, because I have fabulous priorities, is spreading my legs. I couldn’t spread my legs, it was like white hot fire shot down my entire leg and tears would spring to my eyes.

Um yeah. I like sex. Like, a lot. A kind of essential part of sex is the ability for me to spread my legs…

It was time to get creative. The problem was, almost everything on my left side starting at my lower back, couldn’t handle the slightest touch. The phrase “MIND THE LEFT!” was suddenly my constant mantra. Hugging, random touches, cuddling, somehow it seemed like everyone was targeting my left side and I’d have to squeak out the phrase to save the poor, injured side of my body.

Sex was going to be the most complicated thing I’ve ever attempted. If I can’t handle a gentle pat on the ass as I’m walking by, how the hell am I supposed to handle a pounding!? We decided to try standing up for sex, but I couldn’t last long because I’d put all of my weight on the right side, and with me and stand up sex I always have to be on my toes because I have ridiculously short legs.

We tried laying down with my legs together in the air, but my back would take quite the pounding so that didn’t last much longer. Then we threw a pillow under my ass and that worked a bit better.

We tried laying on our sides, but I couldn’t lay on my left side, and he found it almost impossible not to grab my left hip to use for leverage.

Suddenly my most common phrase for sex wasn’t anything as sexy as “oh baby harder!” Or “I like that!” It was “MIND THE LEFT!!!!”

The accidental grabbing of my left side was so frequent that my frustration mounted to the point where I wanted to take a sharpie and draw a caution sign all over the left side of my rump. It seemed like he was magically drawn there, again and again, and it didn’t matter how often I cried out “MIND THE LEFT!!!”, he continued to touch it mere moments later.

It worked out that from behind was the ideal position for us. I was totally OK with this, especially because it happens to be my favorite position in the first place. Finally, we were having amazing sex. After the many days of trying to figure this whole sex thing out, we had gotten it right.

We were both getting into it. I cannot describe how amazing this sex was, it was like the failure and frustration of our previous attempts just made this one so much better. I was slamming my ass back to meet his thrusts. Instead of using my hips for leverage he had my hair wrapped around his fist. I LOVE having my hair pulled. I was in heaven. The pleasure was building and building in my body and my moans were getting louder and louder. It was primal, he was getting into it, his thrusts getting more intense. He pulled back his free arm and THWACK! He smacked my ass with the gusto of one rewarding his good girl, just like he knew I liked.

It only took him a moment to realize what happened. A deep indrawn breath, a strangled noise. A spasm and the sudden collapsing of my body. I could not even draw in breath, the pain was so blinding. He had forgotten the cardinal rule we had established for everything… He had forgotten to mind the left. He had a 50/50 shot of delivering a delightfully arousing blow that surely would have sent us over the edge of bliss; instead he hit the nail in the coffin of our sex.

It was over. I curled into a ball, making vague mewling noises with the panted breath that was all my body was capable of at the moment. For once, it was not me chanting my fail sex benediction of “oh God! I am SO sorry!”, it was him.
Wicked Wednesday

Jun 112015

Sometimes I feel like the written word fails me; as though audio would convey more of what I’m trying to express. How do you describe the quick, shallow, in draw of breath when a new partner first brushes your neck with their fingertips? How can words possibly describe the sigh of releasing tension the first time a new lover explores your sex?

The memories I write, and the stories I tell all have a certain cadence in my mind. I feel like without the pauses in speech, without the breath taken between certain words, without the tone and emphasis they read in my head, the experience might be lost on a reader. As I read, I wonder if other readers will hear the same the stirring, mellowed, sexy tones that I do in my head.

Writing erotica, sharing whispered, sexy little memories with others, I want you to feel how I do. I want the tone to convey the tingle of arousal that shot through my body as I remembered and wrote. I want you to feel how alert every fiber in my being was when I woke up from the dream that inspired the delicious fantasy I write down and share. Sometimes, I feel as though I’m not powerful enough of a wordsmith to evoke the very physical response I have to these things; at least not in print…

Sometimes, I wonder about audio.

May 272015

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I get soaking wet,
Just thinking of you.

While it’s corny, is the first thing that popped into mind when reading the prompt about roses. I started trying to think of a steamy scene on a bed of roses. Roses are always supposed to be the ultimate romantic symbol. Honestly though, in most of our lives, the most common use of roses is that of the poem format. Silly little jokes or love notes left between lovers. I love these. It’s simple, a bit creative, and a nice little way of saying “I’m thinking about you”…

And to me that’s better than an elaborate steamy scene in my imagination.
Wicked Wednesday

May 112015

Sooooo face sitting…

I’ve had plenty of requests from men for face sitting, in many different forms. I’ve had men request it to provide oral sex. I’ve had men request it for me to be the top in 69. I’ve had men request me to sit on their face and fart in the their mouths… I’ve have requests for more bodily functions along those lines.

For the latter requests, I’m not into bodily functions. I was raised to be total open and comfortable with my body and sex, except for bodily functions. Women don’t have bodily functions. I’ve literally had anxiety issues about the bathroom since I was little. The biggest crossroads for me with living with a partner is if I ever get an upset stomach. I’ve made someone wait in the car before when experiencing stomach issues. There’s NO WAY I’d ever fart in the same room as a man, let alone DO IT ON THEIR FACE.

Beyond those extremes though, if at all possible, I decline face sitting. If I’m pressured into it, I am never comfortable, and therefore never enjoy it.

I’m a fat kid.

I’m even more disturbed by face sittings twin sister- smothering. Way to go to make something questionable for a fat kid even MORE dubious. I’ve always had this fear that I’m going to smother someone with my huge ass, without even calling the act that. I’m short, like 26 inch legs from the out seam, short. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for a dude’s head. Whenever I’ve been forced into face sitting (and yes, I never willingly do it), I hover awkwardly as far above his head as possible and make that face come to me. That way, if they are magically suffocated in my ample posterior, it’s their fault, and the theory goes their head will drop when they pass out from lack of oxygen before they actually expire.

DAT ass

DAT ass

I know plenty of men, and women, who love face sitting. I can completely understand the power of it from the woman’s perspective. I love powerful moments such as that, but for me it’s just never something I can be comfortable with. M has shared a story with me about face sitting with her husband, and how she got so into it she made a joke about grinding so hard she was surprised she didn’t injure his nose. I thought it was a wonderful story, but was something I couldn’t relate to. I have way too many anxieties wrapped up in the idea for me to ever enjoy it, and so I have the face sitting to others and stick to my many other kinks!

Kink of the Week