Friday, October 23, 2009

This Man Called Angel

“I want you,” he growled it. Demanding. Urgent. Intense.

He fell to his knees and began eating my pussy, through my clothes, even as he was struggling to get them down, off, out of the way.

I hadn’t expected it, after so much loving in the night, and again this morning. It was early afternoon, and I was just starting the coffee. It was the sudden return of his desire, the way he turned to me with such exposed need, as much as the intensity of the sensation of his hungry teeth burrowing into my clit. Again after so many times in the night, I rode the waves of pleasure to the tsunami of cumming

And cum I did, that sudden flooding geyser of cum into his mouth, the metallic odor, the wetness, the liquid heat running down my legs onto my pants, now around my ankles. I pushed my panties there too and held his head fiercely into my pussy as he bit and sucked and swallowed, and his face had droplets of my cum and it was pouring out of his mouth and running down his neck onto his chest and still I came.

And when he had had enough, his face wet and glorious and sanctified, I fell back onto the dining room table, sated.

And he began to lick me, long slow wet tongue muscle pushing proding soothing arousing as he licked me. Exquisite pleasure and rough comfort in his tongue. And again, already primed and running, it poured over the edge, the rise of my juices, the shooting pressure of relief as my hot amrita washed over my swollen labia, my buttocks, the table and onto the floor.

I became hungry for the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him. I pulled him toward me and turned onto my left side, and looked into his eyes. In that glance, each of us exposed to the other. Open. Vulnerable. Lost in Want. And then, I plunged his cock into my mouth. And slowly ever so slowly, I began to pull away from him, hard and gleaming with my saliva, with my desire. The taste of his precum in the back of my throat and the full long length of him caressing the inside of my mouth. Slower still, until neither of us was certain that my mouth was moving on him at all, and then even slower. Plunge him in, linger him out. Over and Over. Every molecule of my mouth was on fire with the pleasure of his cock. Over and Over. Slow, slowly, slower still. Dragging in liquid pleasure across all the nerves in my mouth. Over and Over. The nerves for hot and cold, the nerves for salt and sweet and sour, the nerves for smooth and soft and hard and slippery and slimy, and the nerves for pinching and poking and gagging: all vibrating humming in a kind of ecstatic hymn to my pleasure.

And in my ecstasy, I also began to hum and that deep in my throat vibration caused him to moan and grab my head and slam his cock into my mouth, Over and Over, and then at last release into my mouth…my hungry pleasure mouth, my humming mouth, my eager mouth, my open and wanting mouth…And he released his own gift to me. His cum white and thick and sweet and salty and oh so very sweet in my mouth, on my lips over my chest.

His face wet and beatific and glorified. His face angelic.

This Man Called Angel.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

The Healing (warning; disturbing content involving child abuse)

The sky above her head was Brilliant. Blinding. Blue. Her eyes in mine brown and golden and green. Seelie Eyes.
The Seelie-Eyed Grrl held my eyes in hers. Rascal behind me in the clear late summer sky, holding my head, my hands, stroking my face, my breasts, murmuring sweet words of encouragement and praise.
And Seelie between my legs. My legs open and afraid and lost in childhood memories, stored deep within the tissues of my legs, my pussy holding onto events from oh so long ago.
For fifty years I have sought, without knowing, a woman to hold me in love. To hold me in this tender place, my vulnerable child crying hysterically.
Rascal stroking me with his voice and his hands and Seelie between my legs. The masculine to hold me, the feminine to love me.

Two fingers. Three fingers. Four fingers. Fist me. Fist me. Fist me.

Blinding intense pain. A Physical Pain. An Emotional Pain unleashed in the memory/ in the rememory that fills the little girl, strapped to the kitchen table. The cold grey formica against her back, the mommy holding the child down with her strong hand, her face contorted in her drunken insanity, in her rage. Shoving objects into the little girl, screaming at the little girl, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? A broom handle. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? A rolling pin. TRAMPWHORESLUT! Her hand.

My back is arched so high I can see into his eyes. I see that he is weeping silently, tears running down his face, as Rascal holds my hands and holds the space for this healing. And Seelie's right hand deep inside me, reliving her own traumas with the feminine, sobbing.

And suddenly, I come back to myself, to the now of this scene here on the lawn at Summer Camp, my first fisting in 50 years. I am gasping with the intensity of the pain. Let me breathe you out, I beg, and she does.
Her hand from my vagina, her hand is blood-streaked, and we are both crying. I hold her as she holds me and Rascal holds me and we hold Rascal, and we rock together in the surrender of all women everywhere who have been hurt by another woman. All women who have hurt another woman. All the girl children who have been hurt, and all the boy children who have watched feeling helpless.

As an adult, I have done tremendous amounts of work to understand the memory, to accept and learn from it, to exorcise it. And everything I have learned about myself, about my childhood, about my mother, is suspended in this aftermath of this extreme surrender.

In the aftermath of this extreme surrender, the feminine, the masculine, and the child, together on a blanket in the sun, holding each other...Seelie and Rascal and dangerous in the space of our own and collective healings, from the physical tissues to the emotional vulnerabilities to the space of no-thing, no-judgment, no praise, no condemnation.

Nothing except the feminine, the masculine and the child, sleeping under a brilliant, blue, late summer sky.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Sugasm #174

Veronica Zemanova courtesy of Bad Girl’s Hotbox.

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 #175? 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
5 things I have learned from customers last week at the adult store
“Attractive men typically buy the freakiest toys on the market.”

Doctor’s Visit
“Reach back and spread your cheeks for me”

“Recently it was in a more public venue.”

Sugasm Editor

Editor’s Choice
A Race to the Finish

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Erotic Writing & Experiences
An Afternoon With The Ex
Being a Stranger, Being Fucked rough
Designated Cock
The Display
The Fantasy And The Reality
I Just Want to Watch
Killer Heels - Red Satin Skirt
My G-Spot does exist- HER perspective
Library Offences
Nothing is sacred
Staying After Class
Teachers Pet

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
24/7 BDSM
Danielle Lloyd Topless and All Nude For Nuts - September 2009
Spanking High Impact!
Spanking in the workshop
Strapped on her bare ass!!!
Veronika Zemanova
When The Sunflowers Bloom (HNT)

BDSM & Fetish
Be Careful What You Wish For
In the Dungeon with dangerous: Notes from Dark Odyssey Summer Camp
Knife Play
Lessons Learned (2/2)
The Long Awaited Demo
The M/s Relationship~Fact or Fiction
More Fun with Clothespins
Sub space and sex before bed
Wake Up

Sex Advice
Bareback sex = better sex?
How to Give Your Woman an Orgasm during Intercourse
Trans girl sex: I’m a clumsy asshole

News, Reviews & Interviews
20 Questions With Courtney Trouble
Lelo Gigi
Tres, Dos…nah, Uno

Thoughts on Sex & Relationships
Sex with Dopey
Without any choice in the matter.