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A bdsm love story September 11, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll.
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Words are a power. They are one of the powers of the earth, in fact. I might be submissive in the bedroom, but in front of my keyboard, I have all the dominance. I sculpt the experiences as I relate the assorted sordid tales. Much abides, but much is taken. The stories are filtered through the prism of my perceptions. They are shaped by my memory. I edit the events in the telling. I don’t remember all the details. After all, the best encounters exist for me only in the moments of supreme bliss. I don’t record all that I remember either. There isn’t time to tell everything. Some of it is unimportant. This is how I write. It is fascinating to see how someone else, who shares many of my kinks, presents her experiences.

SapioSlut has a blog. Her adventures appear in a book. As well, there is a sequel.

As an undergraduate in Chicago, I learned about submission in sex clubs. I was taught by two dominant men in particular, one in his late twenties, another in his middle thirties. SapioSlut’s D/s awakening arose via the agency of SapioSir, who, she relates, changed sex from being something nice and fun to something that reaches right through me, turns me inside out and upside down, and whose limits we have yet to reach. I hope those limits are always on a distant horizon. The journey to the edge of the world has its rewards.

SapioSlut ejaculates in orgasm. I do, too, but only rarely. For her this happens with desirable frequency. She says: I can’t come on command yet, but I can certainly squirt on command. She does so in creative ways: When he invited me to hump his leg it meant that in a few seconds I was squirting all over him and the bed. Towel time! And a good thing too, because the towel was soaked after a few more squirts.

SapioSlut also has more orgasms in shorter periods of time than anyone I have ever heard of. She once had 124 in one hour. I wrote to her to ask about the physiology of these hundred orgasms, the shapes they take. She answered me: I think there is a core set of muscles that spasmed with most if not all the orgasms (in my abs and minor glutes — these were the ones that were extremely sore for a few days) as well as the pure struggle of processing the sensation. You are correct, there [are] definitely different types of orgasms through that lot — some comparatively superficial (for me those are the clitoral only) through to deep cervical ones that happen for me with high intensity directly on my cervix which also tend to deploy an intense emotional response as well. I remember musing about whether this ability can be trained. I still wonder that. I should practice.

There are a wealth of other experiences that SapioSlut has that extend far beyond my knowledge. The force of her narrative wants me to try these things out. When SapioSlut said that SapioSir turned her upside down, she meant this quite literally. Under inverted suspension, a small amount of squirt dribbled down my tummy with the first orgasm, but the large rivulets that came gushing down with the second and third were new indeed. Normally my squirt goes straight into a towel, but this time gravity was pulling it down my body and right through my hair. I have only given a blowjob upside down. I wonder about electroplay. I may not try it out. But I admit to curiosity.

What is refreshing about SapioSlut and SapioSir is that they are obviously in love, and the dominance and the submission and the kinky sex happen within a context. Reading the book and reading the blog, we see glimpses of the depths. Some of the short passages are the most expressive. She writes on January 14: Riding in the car this morning I thought about the bruise on my shoulder. Thinking about how it got there gave me an almost instantaneous moment of arousal. His presence, his touch, his growl, his teeth were all there in my mind again. I wanted more. I was instantly lustful. Deliciously so.

In the long run, I want what SapioSlut has. I hesitate to term my feelings envy because I am not at all begrudging. Rather, I am happy to read what she shares about her life with SapioSir. I find myself moved by the pervasive and palpable joy. The way she plays — adventurous, bold, and oh! so sexy — arises organically, nourished as it is by love. I am still picking my way through the frontier, whereas she has built a homestead there. I hope I can thank her someday for providing a peek at the years ahead. For now, I thank her for sharing a bdsm love story with voyeurs like me.

Dirty words August 13, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Masturbation.
1 comment so far

I have plugged Liz Doherty‘s blog as the best resource on the web for learning the mechanics of the casual encounters board on Craigslist. It additionally features high quality erotic writing. I admire the honesty and frankness with which Liz recounts her experiences. She writes about a few of the more memorable ones.

Some stand out: the guy who brought me to screaming, squirting orgasms with his hands alone. The one who made me come just by pinching my nipples. The one who first fisted me, bringing me to a kind of climax I’d never experienced before. The one who fucked me all night long, until I was a limp rag doll, splayed on the bed, exhausted and spent. The one who brought a ruler with him so I could measure his cock, because he said he’d never done so. The one so short he needed a stool to climb up on his bed. The one who pulled and pushed me into positions I didn’t know my body could reach, and then fucked me until I thought I’d explode. The one who demanded I kneel before him and “pray” to his huge cock. The one who pounded me into the floor until I had rug burns on my nose and forehead. The one who wanted only to paint my toenails. The one who wouldn’t touch me at all, just forced his cock into my mouth, exploded and left. The one who wore a cock ring and fucked me all the way across the bed and onto the floor. The one I sucked before an open window while the people across the street watched. The one who showered first and flooded my bathroom. The one who took me on a motorcycle ride and fucked me on the hill at Twin Peaks.

I am envious of her adventures and long for the good old days of Craigslist when such things happened with frequency.

I like the evocative particulars in Liz’s stories. The steaminess of the foreplay fogs up my computer screen.

“May I kiss you?” I finally asked.

“That would be good.” I straddled his lap, and took my time getting to know his sweet and tender mouth, slowly exploring it with my own, licking and sucking his lips, nibbling the end of his tongue, feeling the moisture in my mouth increase as I threaded my fingers through his tight curls. Deeply drawing in the smell of his neck, I stretched his t-shirt out to smell his chest before lifting it off him, raising his arms so I could bury my nose in first one then the other of his armpits, taking in his mildly musky scent as I felt myself growing wet. Dropping lower, my nose found his belly button and I buried it there, drawing deeply. He moaned quietly as I opened his jeans and his cock found my mouth. I knelt before him there in front of the couch, my mouth wet and ready, and took him all the way in in one movement, holding him deeply there, against the back of my throat. I was filled. I slowly pulled my mouth back up his shaft, then down again and again, relishing each time he met the back of my throat, offering no resistance. We took his jeans all the way off, and he lay further back on my couch so I could take his balls in my mouth, rolling each separately then together in my mouth, enjoying the scent, texture and flavor of this part of him.

I hardly ever masturbate while I am reading blogs. But images sometimes insinuate their way into my skull and become imprinted there. Sentences linger. Late at night, I might picture the scene while lying in bed, inventing the details I do not remember or that were not originally present. A girl pulls a tight fitting t-shirt taut. The nipples leave tiny bumps in the fabric. Their darkness is visible through the thin, white cotton. It’s not any girl who does this — it’s me. I nuzzle into hairy, masculine armpits. Lips peck over the solid torso. My tongue demarcates the shapes of muscles. I leave his hard and hairless chest shining in the dim bedroom light. I have the taste of his skin in my mouth. The progression continues, constantly lower: raspberry kisses on the navel, a tongue there, then on the cock, then on the close-set and substantial balls. The sac is soft as leather and full of semen for me. I want to kiss it.

I suck the cock, and then I fuck it. I see it happen through slitted eyes. The images are redolent. I smell this man. My hand is inside my maroon sweat shorts. Fingers press atop the pubis. I pinch the pussy lips shut and shake them energetically from side to side. My cunt transudes. At this point, the initial fantasy is forgotten. My fingers move only to magnify the sensation I experience. I kick the drawstring shorts from my feet. I fuck myself with a purple cock made of aluminum. I hear as well as feel my wetness. My head rolls on the pillow. I thrash and moan and stab the dildo faster and harder. In pursuit of a little death, I am killing myself. I am not quiet about the pleasure I take. I don’t mind that I am overheard. I want my orgasm, and I don’t care who knows it.

I am a sexual scavenger. I use the exploits of others, whether erotica or porn, as a jumping off point in my private play. Liz Doherty’s dirty words arouse me.

Tales from between the stacks May 18, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Retrospective.
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It was my freshman year in college. Though the study area of the library stayed open all night, the main stacks closed at 10 pm. It was a Thursday, the beginning of the weekend parties. Jack and I went into a less traveled section of the stacks around 9:30. I had removed my panties beforehand in the toilet. I remember the loose fitting brown corduroy skirt I wore. He unfastened his belt, then lowered his shorts and boxers. The cock sprang free. He placed a condom over it. His hand followed my thigh into the skirt. He discovered the river delta at the top of my legs. I propped one foot atop the next shelf to show and spread myself. He fucked me against the books, spine up against spine. The stacks rocked behind me as Jack thrust his penis into my heat.

The chance of being found out, of someone walking by in search of an obscure text on Mayan poetry, of librarians stumbling upon us, of a referral to the university administration, or worse to the police, of the simple and unfortunate possibility of coitus interruptus: these all heightened my senses and the responses in my pussy. I moaned and heard the echoes. The sounds of fucking, the liquid slide of cock in cunt, the clap of our bodies, the balls rebounding off my thighs, the noises of sex, the grunts and guttural exhortations: these filled me with fear. The scents of arousal accompanied the fusty smell of old books. My arms wrapped Jack’s back. I felt his heart beating madly against mine. I don’t imagine that we were at it for more than ten minutes before he spurted. He pulled off the condom and hurriedly covered up. I hadn’t come from intercourse. He went to his knees and licked me out. At some point during cunnilingus, the speakers above announced the imminent closure of the stacks, the need to check out all material at the circulation desk several floors below, the warning to vacate the area within minutes. Hastened by necessity, I came in his face with my skirt draped over his head.

I was a library vixen once.

On other occasions during my education, I have fucked in the toilet and in the study rooms of the library. Once I gave an under the table blowjob in the special collection. But the stacks were the first and the best.

Library Vixen in capital letters and bold font requires no long introduction. She is among the signal lights of contemporary erotica. I adore her prose and find much to learn from it in improving the quality of my own writing.

Let me use an example to illustrate what I like.

Library Vixen employs second person and makes it work. You are a part of the story, the subject of her considerable talents.

She writes: But I opt for a slow fill, allowing [my] pussy to spread and take you in, like she too, is trying to put to memory every inch and girth of your cock. Looking at you as [you] fill me, I feel my eyes begin to slit, and my head fall to the pleasure your cock is giving me. I always want to start slow and do, but then something happens to me and I am fucking you, trying to get you inside of me as deep as I can. Wanting your cock to fill me so much it hurts, I want to feel it.

She ensures that the reader has a complete knowledge of what she experiences and how. There is also the well observed detail: how the eyes begin to slit. As is a recurring theme in her writing, Library Vixen accords special importance to the act of memory, how she recalls every inch and girth — which, incidentally, I consider a remarkable juxtaposition of nouns. She chooses her phrases well.

It is an art to tell so much with so few words. In this case the dialogue and the tags suffice.

“Bone me daddy.” yeah I say daddy…

“[You’re] gonna make me cum, if you keep doing that.”

“Do you want to cum daddy?”

Yes. He does.

There are also the evocative images she marries to her words. Despite minor technical imperfections, each post appears as a small masterpiece.

I am deeply and resolutely smitten.

Elsie writes April 19, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll.
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Elsie writes. Oh, yes, she does.

The blog is called So Wrong (the twisted imagination of Elsie). The fiction spans the range of pornography. And it’s good smut.

Let’s take a story at random. As the name suggests, “Dad Quest” is about a woman who fucks her father. The narrator, like others of Elsie’s, makes a point of being self-consciously deviant. With humor, she declares this as her accomplishment.

I sighed involuntarily as he penetrated me. His cock entered my body slowly, steadily, inexorably. It had been rather a long time since I’d had an honest fucking, and no matter what they say, it feels totally different when the guy isn’t wearing a condom. I could feel every texture of his cock as it moved inside me. My own father was fucking me and I was so turned on it ached. I could now officially register myself as a pervert.

She fucks him for a reason that I will leave you to discover. In the progression of the sex, Elsie has an ear for dialogue that’s natural and flowing.

“Do you want to fuck me up the ass?”

“You mean anal sex?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said, wiggling my butt seductively.

“I’ve never done that before…”

“I think you should do it to me now” I told him.

“I’ll be gentle” he said.

“Just fuck my ass” I said.

This is a conversation I have had before. It went more or less as Elsie records. The dropped commas, if they aren’t accidental, speak to the urgency of the demand.

The sex is sexy. Elsie’s skill in constructing images for fucking comprises one of her strengths. It’s what drew me to her in the first place.

He started fucking me, excruciatingly slowly, like a steam engine chugging up to speed. His eyes were narrow slits focused on mine. His thrusts were powerful, they made the bed shake, they made my tits bounce up and down. My cunt was humping back against his cock, meeting his every thrust. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass. His breathing was hard and ragged, and so was mine.

The authorial voice has a cleanness to it. The images channel its power. There are moments of grace as well.

My dad’s come was dry on my face and chest, sticking to my shirt and flaking off. The clouds were low and grey and heavy, and it started to rain. The cold drops mixed in with the warm salty tears that ran down my cheeks.

Without effort, I could have chosen any story at all to illustrate these points. The prose isn’t perfect — none of ours is. But the language satisfies as much as it arouses, which is the best that can be said of any of us, we purveyors of prurience.

The stories often contain sex I wouldn’t choose to have in real life. I am equally certain that Elsie wouldn’t choose to have it either. Imagination ought to be more twisted than the moments of our maximal bravery. Elsie writes, and when she does, it’s with an authentic voice.

Margot la Ravaudeuse and a reminiscence April 5, 2011

Posted by Leah in Blogroll, Retrospective.
11 comments

I don’t have a blogroll, though I should. It’s one of the many things I haven’t gotten around to doing. In place of a list on the side, I will periodically write about my favorite sex bloggers.

One site I discovered recently belongs to Margot la Ravaudeuse. The prose is sexy and revealing. She has a knack for remembering details and incorporating them into her stories. The details build on top of each other. Her latest post includes the following.

• He always drove with a hand on my thigh, and I normally [had] mine folded on top of his.

• His hand crept up my thigh to the edge of my panties as I told him that I always wanted to fuck outside in broad daylight, and that I had never done it and was sad that I probably never would. As he traced the crease between my vulva and my inner thigh, I moved my hand over to his lap to discover a growing hardness.

• Simon pinched my thigh, and ran his hand under my wet panties. I rubbed his cock through his jeans. “Why don’t we stop here?” I pulled my panties down and off my ankles and over my sandal-covered feet.

The sex develops organically, with the conversation, with the ideas, with the closely observed, faithfully repeated particulars of the touches. The fucking itself is hot, on the metal hood of the green sedan. At the end of it, she tells: I was quickly panting and crying out, with my pussy squeezing him harder and leaking all over our hips. Simon stepped back and pulled out of me, and promptly came in ropes from my pubis to my sternum. He leaned over me for an instant; panting, sweating, and glowing. This isn’t really the end though. For that, you will have to visit the wildlife preserve.

Reading Margot, I can’t help but recollect my first time outside, by a small lake in an obscure state park, on a Tuesday afternoon when a friend and I played hooky from school. Travel back with me in time and memory. See a girl unclothed in the untamed grass. See a boy — see a man — equally nude and on his knees behind her.

The sun beats down, leaving my naked skin swimming in perspiration. The dirt paints my forearms and legs a deep chestnut brown. I have the smell of grass in my nostrils. I like the weight of the man on my back, how he clutches my breasts and uses them for purchase as he rides. I am the mare that he mounts. My hair whips laterally as the trot becomes a canter. He grabs hold of my shoulder. The cock reaches farther within. My back arches up. My head is thrown back, my throat exposed. I whinny at the pleasure of it. He fucks me faster. The canter becomes a gallop. I feel it in my thighs. Sweat plasters the locks to my forehead. I gnash my teeth. I bolt forward, barely restrained by the reins that he commands. He smacks my ass, causing me to neigh. He asks for more, and I give it. Blue sky whirling above, we are alone and racing hard to orgasm.

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Leah Lays London

Loose ends September 11, 2011

A bdsm love story September 11, 2011

Dirty words August 13, 2011

Tales from between the stacks May 18, 2011

Elsie writes April 19, 2011

Margot la Ravaudeuse and a reminiscence April 5, 2011

A note of gratitude January 23, 2011

La bella Susana October 28, 2010

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