E{lust} is here again; so get that lust in to your brain

Posted on August 25, 2018 by jaime

May more Elust 109 Header image swiming naked in a pool

Photo courtesy of Sex Matters ~ May More

Welcome to Elust 109–

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 #110? 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 ~

A Picture Is Worth a 1000 Words
House Sitting
Shackles & showers

Wicked Wednesday: The Long Wait 3

Posted on August 22, 2018 by jaime

The door opened. Ellie looked up at him. He was taller than she’d expected, blond, with a ridiculously fashionable haircut. He wore jeans and a good jacket. He’d sent pictures, but you never know until you actually meet someone. He smelled of walnuts, she thought. Walnuts and oiled wood.

He smiled at her, and her heart lifted. She’d been afraid of what he’d think of her. He said, as if he were surprised, “God, Ellie, you’re beautiful! And you’ve done as you’re told. You’re lovely. And good.”

She gaped at him, embarrassed, happy. She had nothing to say back. She couldn’t think.

He reached for her head. Ellie opened her mouth, expectantly, but he grabbed a handful of her hair. “Stand,” he said. She fumbled, trying to obey but clumsy, and he eventually pulled her up himself. His eyes were still kind, but there was something about his mouth. He said, “Put your hands by your sides. Now, please.”

She obeyed, frowning. Should she obey? Then she felt his hand land on her bottom.

The skin buzzed where he’d made contact. She’d let a man smack her. Now he smiled. “When I tell you to do something …”

“I do it, quickly?”

He smacked her again. Her bottom … No, her cunt felt it. She’d imagined this many times, using both hands as she thought of it, till she came. The reality was as confusing and as arousing as she’d hoped. She felt the sex of it, the heat, the need it brought her, deep inside.

His arms held her. He was warm. He stroked her, where he’d spanked. Then he let his finger slip between her buttocks, to stroke her cunt gently. Ellie gasped, and straightened, still in his arms. He was testing how wet she was, she thought. Then: No, he knows that I’m wet.

He’s showing me he isn’t going to ask for my permission to touch me. She leant her head against his shirt, kissed his chest.

He said, “That’s right. Obedience means obeying quickly. Which reminds me: are you expecting your safety call?”

Oh, shit! He’d stressed it, but she’d already decided he was ok.“No. I–No, I forgot.”

He nodded, as if resigned. He let her go—she wanted his body back—and sat on the couch.

He looked up, and indicated his knees. “Ellie, I’m glad you trust me, but… First, I told you to have a safety call. You agreed that you do as you’re told. That’s how this works. Second, not having one is stupid and irresponsible. Come here.”

Ellie came to him. She looked at him, not sure whether she was afraid or if she was teasing him. “You’re going to spank me for trusting you?”

Masturbation Monday: Emilia’s tale 3

Posted on August 21, 2018 by jaime

I’d just threatened to spank Emilia for misbehaviour. And Emilia had agreed that I should. So I said, “But I’d still be doing it for your own good, Emma.”

That sounded stupid to me, but I thought that if she’d liked my first line, she might like that too. Or it might be ridiculous. Emilia considered and then nodded, gazing at the carpet. then she looked up at me. That “dropping her eyes” thing: was that calculated?

I had no idea. She said, “Yes, I know. It would be.” I wondered if she believed it. We’d been maudlinly sincere together so often that what we told each other was usually true. “So yes, you should.”

I believed it, myself. I said, “Ah…”

But more importantly I squeezed her ass that little bit harder. And patted her. And then smacked her. She put her arms round me, and our bodies pressed together. Hard cock to her belly. I lifted her t-shirt at the back, and let her feel the cold morning’s air before I smacked her again. A little harder, my hand on bare skin. Her mouth opened, but she wasn’t looking at me. I smacked her again. This time it was audible.

A little too audible; there were people sleeping in every room in the house.

So here was an armful of warm girl, and a most complaisant and consenting girl she was turning out to be. I suppose I was something of a surprise to her too. We’d never talked about this.

But there was nothing we could do before other guests started waking up. Except for removing my erection from Emilia’s belly. So I kissed her with meaning, desire and emphasis and then – since it had to be done – released her. “We’re going to talk, aren’t we?”

Emilia agreed that we’d talk. In fact I should come to her place on Wednesday and she’d give me dinner. And then we’d… talk. I think that neither of us expected that we’d say many words during that… talk. But in the meantime we gathered the party detritus, taking glasses and plates back to the kitchen.

I set myself a sexless word puzzle. How to turn COCK to SOFT? COCK, CORK, um, WORK, WORT, SORT, SOFT. By the time I’d worked that out the front of my dressing gown was flat enough to be socially acceptable. After pushing herself back into another hug, and accepting one last squeeze, Emilia went back to the room she’d slept in, to wake her friend. We had no more time. People were stirring.

Sinful Sunday: Girl, paddle, swoosh

Posted on August 18, 2018 by jaime

What we have here is the lines made by a swallow in flight.

Her back, her bottom and thighs, beautifully curved, like flight.

And beside them the paddle, imitating the same swoosh.

Life is beautiful when it’s curved.

Anecdote: Dom life, and being a “good” man

Posted on August 18, 2018 by jaime

A while back I was running a law project. It helped get representation for people who were being fucked over by cops, generally because they were black, or young, female and blue-haired, or gay, or poor, and so on. It meant getting into confrontation with cops a lot. Sometimes it meant having to confront them physically, because they’re used to being able to beat people up without much risk of their victims being believed or having the power to do anything about it.

So although I hate confrontation, let alone violence, I found myself getting into violent confrontations on a fairly regular basis. I wasn’t an adrenalin junky at all; but I was a justice junky.

The big thing was to have people with cameras, and people who looked useful in a fight and not scared of cops. That meant that cops wouldn’t do the violence they’d intended when they set out. So there’d be stand-offs. A quick anonymous bashing, with their number badges off, wasn’t an option. So it usually ended peacefully.

But it was risky. I’d do macho posturing during the head-to-heads, and afterwards if there were girls watching, but it always scared the shit out of me.

Anyway, there was a girl whose landlord wanted her out. The landlord had cop friends who were prepared to act, illegally, as eviction agents. I defended her, and was both virtuous and heroic. I put myself in harm’s way for her because that was my job, and in the end I won, and the cops backed off and left her alone.

Talking afterwards, at her place, we were kind of attracted. Which means I fancied the arse off her and she thought I might be all right: I’m just declaring the average.

But because we’d met in a context where I was a sort of heroic community activist, and I thought she fancied the virtuous version of myself, I gave her a lot of feminist posing. It was real, I mean, they were things that I really thought, but the result was that she decided she didn’t fancy me.

I did eventually see her naked, though.

It was eight months later. I was visiting a friend of mine, who I hadn’t seen in a while. Someone had tried to burn down the apartment he was living in, but he was an artist and he thought the charred beams improved the place. So he was still living there.

Anyway, there came some unmistakeable sounds from one of the bedrooms: Thwap! followed by a hard breath.

Then THWAP, followed by a low, female moan. Then THWAP! followed by a high-pitched pain/pleasure noise. Some girl was getting the cane, and she was enjoying herself.

Anyway, a bit later the door opened, and it was my blue-haired girl, the dye gone so she was back to her natural red, skipping naked out the door with fresh cane stripes across her arse, to make a cup of tea for her mistress. She was utterly, exuberantly happy.

So, I’d hidden my dom side from her, because I’d thought she didn’t want that. What I got for my carefulness was a teary vista of her naked, freshly caned body. I mean that about “teary”: she was so beautiful and sexy that I cried that night.

I mean, when I got home.

Oh. But she made me a cup of tea.

Wicked Wednesday: The long wait 2

Posted on August 15, 2018 by jaime

Ellie and Sir (his name was Richard, but she’d starting thinking of him, in her own mind, as Sir) had been talking for weeks since he’d replied to her ad. She felt she knew him quite well.

He could be professorial, but he didn’t take himself too seriously. He made jokes about his own absurdities. They weren’t very funny, but only a sane man would make them. He laughed at her jokes. He’d told her his name and address and where he worked. Those details had checked out. Some men’s hadn’t. He’d lectured her about having a safety call in place before she met anyone, including him.

But she’d told him her address only an hour ago. They lived just a few miles apart. He’d asked her if she’d like a visitor, but then before she could answer, he’d apologised for moving too fast. She’d said, “Yes”, interrupting him.

She’d heard the surprise and relief in his voice. But it was gone a few seconds later. He’d told her how she was to meet him, and that he’d punish her if she hadn’t complied exactly.

When she took her place, on her knees for him, she’d felt, for the first time in her life, that she was obeying.

She was submitting. Even that knowledge of her own mental state was pleasurable.

When he arrived she’d be looking up at him, her body presented for him. As if it was responding to that thought her fell open. She could move her hands and close it. But that’d be cheating; that would be no way to begin.

She heard someone’s steps near her door. Her heart thumped with anticipation, and just a little fear.

Masturbation Monday: Emilia’s tale 2

Posted on August 14, 2018 by jaime

So I’d just threatened to put Emilia over my knee, for disciplinary purposes. It took me a moment to hear what I’d just said. I thought I’d sounded like a roué in an ancient sex comedy, something black and white and British, on television at three in the morning, starring Terry-Thomas and Syd James.

At that time I’d kept bdsm hidden for seven years. I played bdsm with strangers, or I masturbated to dark fantasies, but I didn’t offer to spank my women friends. Or I hadn’t until just then. I wanted to slap my forehead, but my hand was busy patting and squeezing Emilia’s ass. In the absence of complaint from her I’d keep on doing that.

Still, I’d just threatened her with assault: low-level violence, some sexual content. We still hugged, but she was no longer holding an honourable gentleman.

Emilia didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t a gentleman. Her eyes widened, but she said, almost without a pause, “Yes, yeah, I know. You should.”

Oh? Relief was followed a second later by the thought that, if that was the case, then it was a pity I’d said, “if you ever do that again”. How long would it take for Emilia to do something like that again? What was wrong with now?

I thought about whether there were any private spaces in my apartment where Emilia could be suitably disciplined, as we both obviously wanted, and realised that the thing simply couldn’t be done. There were people sleeping everywhere, since they weren’t fit to drive home after my party. They probably wouldn’t stay asleep during any of the noisier pleasures.

That train of thought led to other speculations. I imagined Emilia, a vista of muscular but soft woman draped over my knee, her tee-shirt pulled over her head and her panties on the floor. I’d smack her gorgeous bottom a few times because I couldn’t resist, but surely I should start with reassuring and mood-setting stroking. Yes, that is what I’d do.

My hand told me there was just Emilia under that cotton t-shirt, so there were just two layers of material between our bodies, her tee and my dressing gown, a silk one with dragons that I’d bought in Vietnam.

The middle of one of the dragons pressed, roused, into Emilia’s lower belly. She looked up at me, eyebrows raised.

Some explanation seemed called for. “Yeah. Oddly enough, spanking you is something that I’d enjoy very much. In a, ah, rather pervy way.”

She laughed, evaluating what she had here. “Yes, you would. You would, wouldn’t you?” But her belly stayed in contact with the hardening, stretching sign of pervy enjoyment.

Sinful Sunday: Sparkling

Posted on August 12, 2018 by jaime

Sparkling. She sparkles.

She just does.

Why I write such good books 2: Trust writer’s block

Posted on August 11, 2018 by jaime

I’ve had a lot of trouble with the chapter I’m writing at the moment. It’s the one in which the main characters decide how they are going to act and what they need to achieve by the end of the book.

So it’s very talky, with little action. And a lot of new information gets dumped on the reader, quite late in the book. It has to be done well, so it reads easily and feels like a natural continuation of the story, and not just something that’s necessary for the plot.

Just can’t type another word

I wrote only about a page and a half in two days. That’s unusual. I eventually realised I was blocked.

I’ve learned to trust writer’s block when it happens.

It generally means that I don’t believe in what I’m writing. It’s a sign that something’s wrong with the foundation I’m trying to build on.

There’s a structural or logical fault somewhere, and I can’t go forward till I’ve gone back and fixed it.

So I did, and I found that I needed to offer some of the information earlier in the book, and foreshadow that there was more to come. So I put those changes in, felt better, and now I’m back working on that difficult chapter and making progress. I expect to finish it today.

So another writing rule I’d suggest is:

10 Listen to writer’s block. It’s often trying to tell you something.

Socrates disrespecting his daimon

Socrates said he had a daimon, a spirit that accompanied him and sometimes whispered to him. It never gave him ideas or ‘inspired’ him. Its power was only negative: that is, it would warn him when he was going wrong.

He’d need to re-think, go back to an earlier, more secure point in the argument he was making, and go forward from there.

Think of writer’s block as your good and helpful daimon. Your eudaimon (good spirit).

Don’t let it stop you working; it’s telling you to go back and fix the place where, earlier, you took a wrong turn and got lost. Fix it, and fare forward!

This post is a sequel to an earlier post on ways to make progress when writing. You can find that post here.

Wicked Wednesday: The long wait 1

Posted on August 9, 2018 by jaime

Ellie waited. She faced her own front door, kneeling, in her dressing gown. Her knees were parted and her wrists crossed behind her back. She was obeying a man she’d never met. She’d left the door unlocked. Her knees ached.

She’d never done this before. Would he expect her to suck his cock? Her position suggested it. The position he’d told her to assume while she waited.

While they’d been flirting on FaceChat, he’d asked how she felt about blowjobs. She’d said she loved giving and was superkeen and supergood at it. There’d been a long silence. Much longer than she’d expected.

Eventually he’d said, “Goo-od. Yes, well, obviously I think that’s good.” Then he’d laughed. It was a good laugh, open, delighted, unselfconscious.

It was that, she thought, that had made her take the risk of meeting him. And of meeting him in her home, not in some neutral place. He’d suggested a coffee bar. When she countered by suggesting her home he’d sounded delighted. And then he’d given her instructions, on how she was to greet him.

So they could back out, either of them. But they weren’t expecting to want to. Ellie had waited, now for about twenty minutes. But she’d waited most of her adult life, so far. She’d decided to try to realise – to make real – something she’d dreamed of, lying on her bed, fingers and devices busy, crying out pleasure, but still feeling lonely.

What if he said nothing when he arrived, just unzipped and pushed her head onto his cock? She hoped he’d speak first. That would be nicer. That would be cooler.

But it wouldn’t necessarily be hotter. She wasn’t sure. But if he was the man she’d seen on FaceChat, then she’d already decided she’d take that, open her mouth for him.

She’d be overwhelmed with sensation, full and needed, under his control, not hers.

Her hips moved. She wished she could touch her cunt. Her cunt, wet but empty: yearning. But she’d wait, doing as she’d been told.

He hadn’t told her exactly when he would arrive. He’d just told her to start waiting, facing her door, at six. He would make her wait, of course.