Thursday, 29 November 2007

HNT: Rehabilitation IV - The Return of the Cake!

Well, come on, the franchise slasher/porn movies can do it, so why not me...?


'When you get here, I am going to feast on your cunt.'

These were the words that had been ringing in my ears for almost a week. We had been discussing the Kivin technique, which I had heard of before and seen described as part of a programme in the series 'How to have sex after marriage' which was on C5 Thursday 9pm. The Kivin is a method of licking across the flesh just under the clit whilst holding it proud between the pressure of two fingers on one hand and pressing on the perineum with a finger of the other hand. You're supposed to be able to feel the pulse there increasing with the woman's arousal, I believe.

Anyway, Ruf and I had been formulating the mechanics of this in our heads ready for our time together the following weekend. It has been a long time since he was last able to go down on me. After the termination, I bled for over five entire weeks until I got a proper period. A few days into that I had my IUD inserted, which resulted in continuous bleeding for another 3.5 weeks.

I know Ruf would lick me if I asked but, to be honest, I don't feel comfortable having his mouth there when I'm in that condition so I prefer to dissuade him and pleasure him instead.

Hence, it had been ten weeks since he had last pleasured me cunnilingually. It had also been ten weeks since he had been able to shoot his hot stickiness inside me but, secure in the knowledge that the IUD was where it should be, it was now time to test its efficacy.

No condoms, no blood and no fear.

We were both getting very excited about the prospect of the coming few days.

When I finally arrived, he came out to meet me and help with my bags. It had been three weeks since we had even seen each other. His shaven hair had grown and he had several days of beard. He looked so sexy in a sort of half-pirate/half-terrorist way and, when he smiled, the appearance of the dimple in amongst the stubble tipped me over the edge so that I could barely keep my hands off him!

After dropping all the luggage in the hallway, he took my hand and led me into the lounge, sitting me down on the sofa. Kneeling in front of me, he started to remove my boots and my socks, whilst caressing my calves and shins.

And then he reached up and kissed me. Soft, gentle, searching kisses, reclaiming me from my other life. Evicting the woman who is someone else's wife, casting out the frightened girl who had struggled through all the emotional and physical turmoil of the preceding weeks... and setting Cake free.

His hand undoing my belt and the buttons of my combats, he slid them down and then sat back to admire the view.

The sheer pink polka dot thong hiding very little of the delights underneath, his fingers started to investigate his property; pinching and tweaking at the lips before sliding the fabric aside and saying hello with his mouth. Tracing the contours that he has come to know so well. Licking and sucking and probing until my sighs, giggles and squeals were quite uncontainable.

Reaching back up to share the flavour with my mouth as his hands divested me of the remainder of my clothes. Sliding down my bra straps and burying his face in my half-released, alabaster-pale breasts before unclasping the fastenings and dropping it to the floor as he dragged the thong down with the other hand.

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I was almost cross when he hardly took time to savour the full effect of the pink polka dot lingerie ensemble but, before long, I had forgotten that I even cared as his face disappeared between my legs to bathe in my excitement.

Pulling him up by his ears, I licked myself from his lips and stubbly chin, before tugging at his clothes and helping him to relieve himself of their encumbrance... until he was naked. My beautiful man! All soft pale skin and dark curling hair. Grasping him by his rigid cock, I kissed his mouth and led him into the bedroom, drawing him under the covers to possess me. Sliding him straight inside - bareback, with no preamble. Just our mouths and our bodies pressed against each other as he penetrated the tight wetness and pushed his way to my core.

His love whispered into my ear as he pumped gently. My arms and legs gripping him and enveloping him as I came, murmuring his name over and over and begging him to let go and make me his, culminating in the shuddering release of his passion, slick inside me for the first time in so long... Neither of us hampered by that tiny unspoken fear of repetition that had held us back. It was glorious.

We have come a long way in the last few months. Older, chastened and a little wiser and yet refreshed and replenished. Understanding and accepting the people that we are and the situation we are in. There are no certainties about the future, only the way we feel about each other in the present and that it is too precious to give up without a fight.

The weekend passed in a blur of passionate embraces in our bed, experimenting with some new toys, revisiting some positions that had been precluded by my predicament; dozily wrapping ourselves up in each other, snuggling naked to snooze under the duvet as he refracted, skin pressed against skin at every opportunity, before waking to renewed vigour. The bed a Pandora's Box of metal and plastic accessories as the sheet became a stained rag - spattered with a random pattern of damp patches denoting the bodily manifestations of our lust, punctuated by complete hand prints of lubricating essence.

There are still certain positions of deep penetration that are not as pleasant as they once used to be and I'm not sure if this is psychosomatic or a physical actuality from the device that has been inserted but, to all intents and purposes, our repertoire is back to where it was before The P Word caused a temporary hiatus in proceedings.

It's sooooo good to be back x

Sugasm #107

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 #108? 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


Half-Nekkid Blow Job” We could hear people walking past and talking so they’d be able to hear us as well.”


Masturbation on a Memory“I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind.”


Reality Check: Handling Long Calls“While I get my share of quick cummer calls I have several clients that like to talk for hours.”


Mr. Sugasm Himself Christian Friis


Editor’s Choice A Non-Monogamy Lexicon


More Sugasm


Join the Sugasm



See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Monday, 26 November 2007

Style

I was trying to categorise the writing style within my Blog recently and the best I could come up with was:


Barbara Cartland meets Playboy... but without the Silicon.


How would you describe your Blog?

Sunday, 25 November 2007

Tits Up - date

Gok Wan said the average bra size for UK women is 36C.

Our survey of blog readers received 42 votes as follows:

A/AA
2 (4%)

B/BB
7 (16%)

C/CC
11 (26%)

D/DD
16 (38%)

E/EE
6 (14%)

On 'How to Look Good Naked' Wednesday C4 8pm, Gok is going around the country helping women to feel good about their naked bodies and he has discovered similar facts to those highlighted by Trinny and Susannah (Undress the Nation ITV1 Tuesday 8pm) only a few weeks earlier: Women are wearing the wrong size bras. They have gaps between the fabric and the flesh. They have flesh busting out all over. There are even women who appear to have four breasts!

His top tips to remember in calculating whether your bra fits are:

1. Lift (or better still, get someone else to stand behind you and put their fingers under) the straps of your bra at the topmost point of your shoulder. If the fabric stretches more than 1" upwards away from your shoulders, then your bra straps are not tight enough. The straps have little buckles on them for loosening and tightening - USE THEM to adjust for optimum support every time you don your underwear!

2. The flat bit in between the two cups should fit snugly against your body. If there is a gap, your bra doesn't fit.

3. If there is any seepage ANYWHERE - from underneath the cups, bulbousness over the top of the cup or flesh squeezing out by your armpits - the cup size is too small.

Ladies, we need to look after ourselves because a bra that is too small looks horrible, feels horrible and will not support your beautiful bosoms!

Remember, if you wash your bra in the washing machine, this will have an effect on the elasticity of said garment. Sometimes they can shrink and sometimes they can expand so, if you are wearing a bra that is more than two years old and is washed once a week, the chances are that it is probably not adhering to your cupcakes in the way that it did when brand new.

Check it out and if it's seen better days, go down to a good bra shop, get yourself properly measured and invest in a new model. One word of caution: Please remember the discrepancy between measurements that Trinny and Susannah experienced and when you try on the different styles in what is the recommended size, bear in mind Gok's golden rules as listed above.

Inspired by the bravery of the average woman in the street who has been prepared to reveal all for Gok or Trinny and Susannah, I have started to fully appreciate the beauty of my own boobtastic chest in addition to my fabulous arse. And I've stopped worrying about what I consider to be a blubbery tummy. Almost every woman who has ever carried a child to full term has exactly the same 'damage'. We/I have to stop worrying about these things and rejoice that our bodies did such a fantastic thing and still lived to tell the tale. These pointers - a bit of saggy skin, a few stretchmarks - are all just signs showing that our bodies did what they were meant to do.

Do we not see our menfolk proudly preening their beer bellies in front of the mirror? Surely, as women, we should stop beating ourselves up for the changes that have occurred in our own bodies through the most natural act in the world when our men certainly won't be denying themselves an extra pint or pie for fear that we might suddenly dump them. I'm not saying that we shouldn't be doing things to try to tighten things up if that is what we want to do but we should be doing exercise and eating a little less because we want to look good for us - not just because we fear that our mate will find us unattractive and go off in search of a younger model.

These programmes should be compulsory viewing for all of us with body issues because we don't all have the stick-thin figure of Kate Moss or the voluptuous hour glasses of various movie stars that bombard us from the television. We all have different beautiful shapes - bells, vases, columns, cellos, apples, pears, to name but a few. We just have to learn how to dress them to maximise our assets. But, above all, we need to learn to love our bodies and ourselves for without that inner beauty, we are lost in a sea of self-esteem issues.

This was another issue that was brought out in C5's 'How to have Sex after Marriage'. So many women who hated their appearance and had no self-confidence as a result. That lack of belief meant that they were scared to initiate intimacy with their husbands at all - and certainly not with the lights on! You men can help here. I know it's high maintenance, but we desperately need to hear you tell us how desirable we are and how beautiful you find us. I know, I know. But if you say it often enough, we have to believe :)

So ladies, we all need to stand in front of a mirror and chant the mantra 'I am a beautiful woman and I am gorgeous.'

Say it and believe it... because YOU ARE!!!!

Rant over. Cake gets off her soapbox...

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Saturday, 24 November 2007

Eight...

If you would rather read an erotic story than a meme, please move down to the next blog entry about The Driving Lesson.


As Tagged by Waynecoff. In some cases it was impossible to pick out eight things in each category and in others there were more than eight, so not the easiest meme. But then I thrive on not conforming so...

8 passions in my life

My children - so that's two really

Ruf

Martial Arts

Happiness

Maintaining my friendships

The proper use of the apostrophe



8 things to do before I die

Be satisfied that Ive done the best I could

Be satisfied with my martial arts performance

Dandle my grandchildren on my knee

Have a three-some

Have a partner with whom there is mutual adoration and who satisfies me in every area of my life even if I am high maintenance


8 things I often say

Sorry

Tidy your room

Hang your blazer up and put your shoes in the cupboard

Do your homework

Regret what you didn't do, never what you did

You've got to want it

Don't think, feeeeeeeel

Why can't you just love me?


8 Books I read recently

Life and Times of Anne Boleyn

Harry Potter and The ?

The Bubishi

The Story of the Egg

The Northern Lights

The latest book in the Dynasty series by Cynthia Harrod Eagles


8 songs that mean something to me

Dirty Little Secret - All American Rejects

I know I'll never love this way again - Dionne Warwick

Starlight - Muse

Barbie Girl - Aqua

Wake me up inside - Evanessence

Living on a Prayer - Bon Jovi

Total Eclipse of the Heart - Bonnie Tyler

Lola's Theme - Shapeshifters



8 Qualities I look for in a friend

Loyalty

Honesty

The ability to listen and not be too judgemental

The ability to tell me the truth without being too harsh

Compatibility

Similar interests

Similar experiences


8 People who I am passing this on to:

I hate chain letters and I also detest tagging loads of people because you end up with the same blog subject everywhere, so I will pass this on only to Gypsy

Thursday, 22 November 2007

The Driving Lesson

Take the next turning on the right and pull over. Remember, mirror, signal, manoeuvre please, Mr. Smith"

"That's the ticket. You're doing very well. Now, if you could just pull into this small gap, down the beaten track to the end. Put the car into neutral, engage the handbrake and switch off the engine, please. I think we'll run through some of the finer points of the Highway Code. You should bear in mind that this will be done under strict test conditions so I will not be able to help you."

Checking the top sheet of my clipboard, I place it carefully on the floor in front of my seat and duck under your outstretched arm to slide across the central console. Making sure your hands are replaced firmly on the steering wheel in the correct position at '10 to 2', I straddle your lap and start unbuttoning your shirt. You have a rainbow of different coloured garments but you're wearing the black today. It's the one I like best. My favourite shirt on my most gifted pupil. So, one button at a time, trailing my finger down to the next and kissing your chest as it reveals itself to me. Running my tongue over the tattoo that runs down the top of your arm from your shoulder, licking the space between your nipples - slight detour to the nipple bar for a suck - soft kisses over your solar plexus and down, lapping at the smooth little rolls of skin and the ripples of muscle underneath, feeling something pressing up against me through your jeans.

I take off my glasses and place them carefully on the dashboard, followed by the clip from my hair and shake out the cloud of soft curls. Kissing you full on the mouth, inserting my tongue as your lips open to receive it. My hands are on the button of your trousers and you are throbbing as I gently pull down the zipper. I have to look down to check things out and it's so beautiful, just smiling up at me. I am compelled to stroke it with one hand, whilst I reach under my blouse and undo my bra with the other so I can press my naked nipple into your mouth. I can feel myself exploding inside as your tongue touches the tip, your lips encircle it and suck...

It's no good, I have to have you inside me so I lift up my skirt, push aside my thong and slip onto it, slowly pressing down to take the first couple of inches inside me. Your hands move to touch me, just sliding them down my spine and feeling me shiver at their progress. Watching the goosebumps coming up as you suck harder on my nipple and I push it against your tongue. Resting your fingertips lightly on the small of my back, tickling your little fingers against the curve of my bottom and then starting to push carefully into me: slowly, slowly in and then out again as I touch myself, pressing and circling my fingers and then leaning my other hand behind me between your legs and stroking your balls through your jeans whilst my mouth admonishes you:

"Mr Smith! Keep your hands on the steering wheel and your eyes on the road even if we aren't moving. You'll never pass the test if you don't obey the rules of the Highway Code!"

Rising up and down on you and gripping your thighs with my knees, feeling my muscles screaming with the pressure as I hold you deep inside me, clenching my pelvic floor and drawing your further in, leaving you conscious of nothing more than how wet I am and how much I want you. You gasp at every contraction, feeling me press down hard against you, listen to my moans of desire. So full and so happy and knowing that any minute, any second, we're both going to feel that rush, that exhilaration of total release as my body sucks yours dry.

And then my fingers are pressing into your shoulders and we're writhing against each other... mouths, torsos, groins... as hard and as fast as we can, draining every last ounce of energy until everything is exploding, wet and hot as we collapse against each other...

Readjusting my clothing and rebuttoning your jeans and your shirt, I slip back under your extended arm, the hand still fixed on the steering wheel. Regaining my position in the passenger seat, I use the mirror behind the sunvisor to check my hair and reapply my lipstick before consulting my clipboard to tick the requisite boxes on the sheet.

"Congratulations, Mr. Smith, you have just successfully satisfied the needs of your examiner with regard to the criteria for this section of your examination...."

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

The Future Mr Cake

It was the first days of January of a new decade. The great glamrock/disco/punk leviathans of the '70s had drawn to a glorious close, the term Britpop had not yet been coined and we were about to begin the time of the New Romantic with its hermaphrodite confusion of Beau Brummel-type fops.

My relationship with the Cherry Picker was over, my liaison with the Sugar Daddy was drawing to a close and, after a busy New Year's Eve, I had several dates lined up for the following week.

I was having an early evening drink with the Cherry Picker at the local Rugby Club and, on my way back from the Ladies, I was accosted by a group of my father's friends. Chatting away flirtatiously, I became aware of someone I had not been introduced to previously. He was great fun and, when the other guys drifted away to get more drinks or take a leak, he remained. Quietly confident, he was intriguing and clearly somewhat older than my usual beaux. I never returned to my place beside the Cherry Picker. It transpired that he was 26 and the younger brother of a friend of my father's. I laughed and commented that most of my father's friends had beer bellies and would buy me a drink, insist on kissing me because it was The New Year and then get progressively more drunk and more revoltingly lecherous as the evening wore on. He replied that 'he was not like my father's other friends'. Looking sidelong at him, this was quite obvious. He was handsome, tall, slim and athletic and played scrum half for the second team. He was also softly spoken, erudite and funny. I think I rather liked him right from the start.

After an hour or so, I remembered that I was supposed to be meeting another friend for dinner so I had to make my excuses and leave. He was very reluctant to let me go and kept making reasons for me to stay but I had not seen my other friend for ages so I had to go. I got my coat and, as I passed him on the way out, he asked if he could see me again. Consulting my diary, I realised that I couldnt actually fit him in until the following Wednesday, due to my previous engagements. Undeterred, he took my home phone number (no mobiles in those days) and we agreed that he would pick me up at 7 on the Wednesday evening and take me out for dinner. Dinner? None of the other young guys were taking me out for dinner!

The other dates turned out to be tedious dullards, even the one who took me for Sunday lunch, who was the most acceptable of a bad bunch. I was obviously very drunk that New Year's Eve... or very desperate!

The Future Mr Cake picked me up at the appointed time and drove me to a not-so-local bijou restaurant. There were candles and soft music and only one or two other couples. He took my coat, pulled out the chair and helped me to sit down. He encouraged me to choose the most expensive steak from the menu and then entertained me with funny stories for the rest of the evening. By the end of it, I was quite smitten and, when he kissed me very gently on the lips to say goodbye, my heart just melted.

By the February, I had decided that he was the one and, when my father was out for the evening, I invited him for dinner. Not being the world's greatest cook, I can remember that the fishfingers were burned... but the coupling afterwards was very successful.

It's really hard to go back and recall just how I felt nearly 30 years ago but I know I was totally in love with him.

I was 18 years old and I had spent the previous year running a four-bedroomed house for my father and younger sister, doing the housework and shopping as well as attending College fulltime and successfully completing my assignments by their due dates. I was also dealing with my mother's departure, my father's drunken attempts to cope with her desertion and abrogation of responsibility to her family... plus the physical manifestations of my anorexia.

The Future Mr Cake seemed like an angel sent to rescue me and make me happy. It's not surprising that he was duly accorded the 'knight on white charger' status that my romantic spirit needed to escape. Trying to reach back through all the tears and the resentments to the two innocent young people that we used to be. Before it all withered away. Just attempting to reconnect with that confused girl and how she felt makes me so sad because I know that there are so many good times that I have forgotten. So many memories that have been overwritten by acrimony and antagonism.

I know that he was quite worried about the age difference of very nearly eight years. Coping with what I was having to, I was very mature for my age but there were still many things that gave him cause for concern. However, I was very pretty and bubbly and he admitted that he had been watching me for several weeks prior to that January day, trying to pluck up the courage to ask me out and I truly believe that he loved me too in his own way.

He used to kiss me back then. Tenderly and passionately. And on that first night, he built me up to a point of no return as he removed my clothes and slipped his fingers into me. Like the Cherry Picker, he too knew what he was doing with his digits and soon I was coming just as hard as I was used to.

He whispered: 'What am I going to do with you?' as he reached over to his jeans for the condom but it was unnecessary. I had been on the Pill since well before the advent of the Cherry Picker so, for his first time bareback, he just slid into me and thus I opened the door on the sexual side of a relationship that would take 25 years to finally founder.

Sugasm #106

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 #107? 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 Advanced Deep Throat Techniques “Suck your man’s penis into your throat, and, while it is deep in, start to hum.”

MILF = Men I’d Like to Fuck “He knows my body p e r f e c t l y and knows exactly how to make me squirm with pleasure and always knows the right thing to say.”

Reconciling Desire & Reality (part 2) “The excitement of sharing her, the excitement of my arousal THEORETICALLY should mean a heightening of our own sex life.”


Mr. Sugasm Himself

Our fearless leader tells me he’s crazy busy so I’m presenting one from the vaults.

The Six Types of Porn Movie (and How To Get Into Them)


Editor’s Choice Primed

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm


See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sunday, 18 November 2007

Parental nightmare

This week one of my worst fears as a parent was confirmed.

My teenage daughter and I have always had a very open relationship with regards to discussing matters sexual. I am extremely proud of that. She can and does ask me anything that she is unsure of and I will answer as honestly as I can and display absolutely nothing judgemental in that explanation.

From the age of 10, when she first asked about condoms, I have stressed repeatedly that they are to be worn at all times when involved in a sexual situation. I worked on the basis that if a handsome young man plied her with alcohol and then tried to persuade her that he would still love her in the morning, even in her drunken stupor, she would still have me sitting on her shoulder hissing 'If you have unprotected sex, you will get AIDS and you will diiiiiiiiiiie. Use a condom!'

And yet, she revealed this week that she had been to the Family Planning to have something checked out. They have told her that the burning when she passes urine is not an STI but, more likely, a case of cystitis - a condition to which she has been prone since she was a small child. On learning of this, I immediately plied her with my sovereign cystitis remedy - a pint of water with a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda in it and reassured her that the problem could be cured within the day, without recourse to the doctor or nasty-tasting and hard-to-swallow antibiotics, if she drank this concoction on a regular basis.

I then proceeded to tell her the Golden Rules of the next few days. No drinks containing caffeine, other than very weak tea. No acidic fruit juices. Lots of water and cranberry juice. But, more importantly, no sex and no vibrators. She looked at me curiously. Yes, cystitis can be brought on by over-enthusiastic masturbation or copulation.

'Well,' she informed me, laughing excitedly. '***** did have a very big dong!'

Yes, I had to try very hard not to pull that face too!

***** is a name that I have not heard mentioned before. I was aware that she had been having sex with her previous boyfriend of six months and of that relationship's demise... but knew nothing about this chap.

As the day wore on, the questions started to formulate in my head. Who was this guy? Why was she going to the Family Planning to get something looked at, rather than mentioning it to me first. I know that she went to them for contraception - the Pill AND condoms - she discussed it with me before she went.

Slowly, the realisation dawned and, the next time we were on our own, I asked her. 'Did you think that you had an STI because you had had unprotected sex with *****?' My heart just sank when she gave an affirmative answer.

I am quite devastated to be honest. All those years of trying to drive the message of safe sex home in as many different ways as I could, telling her where my condoms were kept, even offering to buy her her own supply. All that for nothing because she has still played Russian Roulette with her life and is now telling me not to fuss.

Apparently, she had used a new purse and had forgotten to transfer the condom she usually kept with her and yet, despite all my warnings, she went ahead and had intercourse anyway. I told her that in some ways it would have been better to give him a blowjob - certainly there were still risks through swallowing but nowhere near the exposure of full-on unprotected sex.

I tried to assess the damage by asking pertinent questions about her knowledge of his sexual behaviour but she refused to answer and by keeping on I would have just made matters worse in terms of her telling me things in the future.

So, I just said that for peace of mind (for both of us), perhaps she should go back to the Family Planning in three months and ask for an HIV test. I know that it takes this long for the antibodies to be present in any blood sample so to have one done now would be pointless. If she did turn out to be positive, it would be better to know sooner rather than later so that any treatments could be commenced immediately.

My daughter has always been very feisty and dumped her recent longterm boyfriend because he admitted that he had feelings for someone else and was torn between my teen and the other girl. Basically, she told him that if he felt he had to make a choice, then she would make it for him and he could f*** right off! Go, teen, go!

So, I'm not sure that I need to talk to her about not feeling obliged/needing to have sex with any young man who shows an interest because I don't think she does. I think she places quite a high value on herself. Up until now, I have always been pragmatic about her attitude to sex and have never said 'Don't do it', rather 'Do it if you feel you want to do it because you care about someone and you would enjoy doing it with him/her, but always do it SAFELY'. I wanted her to feel empowered rather than inhibited by her sexuality.

I can only hope that this will be a one-off and that she will ensure possession and use of a condom at all times in the future... and I can only pray that the outcome of the test will prove to be negative.

Friday, 16 November 2007

Genetic Frigidity

I asked my mother why it was that my Grandma never got married again after her husband died. She said it was because Grandma didn't like the physical side of marriage. Apparently she used to tell the anecdote that she would stay downstairs until she thought he was asleep but, on numerous occasions, as soon as her foot touched the bottom-most stair to go up to bed, her husband would call out 'I'm still awake'...

Between them, her four sisters only managed to produce three children and one remained a spinster, stating that she couldn't find a man for whom she wanted to give up her independence. We should, of course, bear in mind that this was in the period after two World Wars, where men were in short supply due to the vast number of casualties.

I can remember my own mother staying downstairs finishing chores til late into the night and I can also vividly recall the sounds coming from my parents' bedroom as my father tried to insist on his conjugal rights and my mother would decline vociferously.

In my own marriage, I too have been guilty of only coming up to bed when I hoped my Husband was asleep. The most memorable was the night I had done a grading and achieved a serious martial arts belt - brown. There were still three big steps to get to black but brown was regarded as getting your foot on the first rung of the ladder. It had been a hard grading, lasting nearly three hours with lots of tests to make your brain do complicated routines under the dual pressures of fear and fatigue, ending with several rounds of sparring against the higher grades. I was physically exhausted after the ordeal but my mind was flitting about like a mad thing and the adrenalin was coursing through my veins, making me nauseous and flighty.

I spent several hours on the computer trying to calm down and when I did finally go upstairs, my Husband stirred in the bed, obviously still awake. I informed him that I'd just succeeded in getting my brown belt as I disappeared into the bathroom. When I slid under the covers a few minutes later, his immediate reaction was not to voice his congratulations but to roll over, reach for my breast and try to subjugate me to his will.

I was having none of it. I had just fought off several other men, I wasn't about to submit to this one so he was sent back to his side of the bed with a stinging verbal flea in his ear that I was still more in the mood to punch rather than fuck... The power that my martial arts training gave me in view of having the courage to fight rather than submit has played a major role in how my life has progressed since then.

But I'm still left worrying about my sexuality - not my gender or persuasion, but my enjoyment level. I chose to deny myself fulfilling sex and sometimes any sex at all for so many years because I thought I was ugly and my body disgusted me. The fact that my Husband couldn't tell me, let alone make me believe, that he found me attractive exacerbated my mental revulsion. His accusations through the darkness across the cold marital bed that I must be frigid or a lesbian only made things worse.

I know that there is definitely no questioning my sexual preference because Ive always much enjoyed the company, and indeed the admiration, of men, lusting after them in all their shapes and forms and inadequacies.

Discovering sex toys made me understand that I wasn't frigid per se because I could get orgasms from them and The Catalyst's compliments helped me to start to believe that I might not be so unattractive. However, his good opinion had been formed from carefully selected photographs that I had sent. He hadn't seen the full horror of my body in real life so how could he be trusted.

Thus, it was Bear who made me start to believe. A man at least a decade younger than me who found me attractive enough to stray ever so slightly from his marriage just that once.

But I wasn't always so cold in my marital bed. In the beginning, I had enjoyed, instigated and fantasised about sex with my Husband. Maybe my mother and my grandmother had also had those feelings at the beginnings of their marriages but they had all gone away. Perhaps I was genetically programmed to lose interest in my partner once the initial instinctive lust had run its course?

And yet with Ruf, two years have gone by. Two years during which we have made love/fucked/mutually masturbated hundreds of times. If you say that we spent time together at least one weekend every month and interacted at least ten times as a very conservative average, that is a minimum of 240 sexual encounters, lots of them in broad daylight where my body was on full display. It doesn't sound as if I am frigid or, indeed, as if I am starting to lose interest.

If you compare that to the ratio of people who actually live together in the early days of their relationship, would they still be achieving a minimum of ten times per weekend twice a month? Maybe, as they say, familiarity breeds contempt and having sex on tap running in tandem with the mundane drudgery of maintaining a joint home cannot possibly compete with the intensity of sex that can be attained when you see someone only twice a month and set aside whole days purely to enjoy each other. So if I were to put my relationship with Ruf onto a more permanent footing, would I regress to that genetic frigidity after a year or so?

It is a question that concerns me greatly.

Thursday, 15 November 2007

Ruf

I'm sorry but I need to do this because, currently, Sugasm is in bigger print than my beloved in my tag cloud.

This is a situation which cannot be allowed to continue.

A new post entitled Genetic Frigidity will follow in the morning...


Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf Ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf ruf
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Tuesday, 13 November 2007

Masturbation Memories

A friend has lent me a manual on parenting issues in the modern world and I left it lying on my bed whilst I came down to catch up on my emails.

When my 13 year old son came in from school, he went upstairs, saw the bright yellow book and, for reasons unknown, began to peruse it.

The first I knew of this was when he came down clutching the small tome and, opening it to the offending page, demanded to know why I was reading a book that contained a section on 'Masturbation'.

As usual, in these situations, I responded without any sign of shock or fluster - I've had a lot of practice in this field now. So, hardly moving my eyes from the computer screen and behaving as if the question had no more import than if he had asked me what was for tea, I replied:

'Well, why not? Masturbation is a perfectly normal function and it's quite ok to do it so long as you don't end up with a crusty carpet.'

This is a throwback to a friend's teenage boy whose bedroom carpet had loads of sticky rough patches where he'd been entertaining himself whilst lying on the floor reading his porn magazines and so I always associate teenage wanking with crusty carpet syndrome.

He looked at me curiously so I continued. 'Just try to catch what comes out in a tissue, rather than letting it spurt over the carpet where it dries all crispy.'

'But...' he started and then stopped, adopting a sort of sheepish posture.

'But... what?' I looked away from my screen at his little red face with the twisted, half-curious/half-mortified grin.

'But, what about girls? It says in that book that girls masturbate too. How does that work?'

'Of course girls do it as well. It's a perfectly normal thing to do. They just rub their bits in a nice way and it can make them have an orgasm too.'

I can see from the look on his face that he doesn't really understand so I go through the whole penis/vagina thing with the emphasis on the fact that the area needs to be lubricated in order for it not to be a rather dry and uncomfortable occurrence.

'And so when girls have an orgasm because it feels nice, it's like a lot of extra wetness inside them.'

'Oh,' he said and wandered off to digest and assimilate all this information.

Now, I realise that there are a whole load of tangents that I probably should have gone off at to deal with some very salient issues like how the lubrication for the penis/vagina bit gets there in the first place and possibly mutual masturbation, but that didn't occur to me at the time and sometimes you need to give them a chance to work with the more basic stuff before overloading them with additional facts and further questions. Sometimes there can be just too much information.


A short while later, he returned and starting being irritating in that relentless badgering mode that children have when they want to get their own way about something they want to do that certainly isn't the homework to which they should be attending.

'For goodness sake,' I eventually huffed. 'Can't you go and masturbate or something?'

For a moment he looked quite shocked and then slunk out of the room giggling conspiratorially...


But it got me to thinking. My son is 13 and I don't actually know if he does wank in the form that I understand the term and, if he does, how did he find out what to do?


So I'm addressing these questions to you males out there in an attempt to try to find out more without embarrassing my poor son with a whole load of personal questions.

How old were you when you first masturbated?

How old were you when you first ejaculated?

What made you want to do it?

How did you work out what to do? Did you talk about it with your mates? Learn about the mechanics at school or from a book?

Were there mental stimuli involved (like naked women pics) or was it a purely physical pleasure?

Enlighten me...

Sugasm #105

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 #106? 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
Bonbon
“I feel him start; then he groans into my mouth, a deep helpless sound, and I know I’ve got him.”
Domme virginity lost
I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. You know that, don’t you, sweet boy?”
Reality Check: Lessons Learned From Clients
“From my conversations I’ve learned a number of things that have helped me, educated me and surprised me.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Belladonna Likes Heroin
Editor’s Choice
Each Mirror has two sides

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sunday, 11 November 2007

Icing on the Cake

Ruf was late back so I had already settled myself from the long drive and had time for a welcome powernap. As I emerged from the bedroom to greet him in the hallway, I could smell the afterwork drink at the pub and then taste the familiar residue of the lager on his tongue. Staropramen, my favourite.

'Hello bab-a,' he whispered against my mouth as my questing hands reached under his tshirt for their goal. The soft crackle of his chest hair against my fingertips making me sigh with pleasure as our kisses became deeper and more probing. Without breaking away, I was pushing off his jacket and lifting up his shirt, trying to undress him without stopping the intensity of his mouth but it was no good. I had to release his lips momentarily to pull it over his head so it was half on/half off, resting across the back of his neck with his arms pinioned by the sleeves. I dragged off my own tshirt and stepped out of my skirt, revealing my pretty pink lingerie and the lacy topped hold ups that he loves so well, before pressing my flesh back against his naked torso and re-engaging his lips.

Ruf's kisses are my undoing. They weaken me, make me desperate for him, raise goosebumps on my flesh and liquidise my panties until I'm panting with my desire. But this time I had a plan. I would be in control. Normally, despite our best intentions to delay and get maximum satisfaction, the yearning of the long absence finds us coupled within an hour of my arrival. But not this time. For once, I would be the one giving all the pleasure... because the manner of that giving meant that I received as well.

I started to manoeuvre him backwards towards the doorway to his bedroom, lifting his arms up above his head as if my intent was solely to remove the restriction of the tshirt and, before he realised what I was doing, one hand was cuffed to the bar across the doorframe.

He smiled curiously as he allowed me to imprison the other above his head and then his mouth was against mine again. His tongue exploring that warm wetness as he became my willing captive. Without interrupting our kissing, my hands were at his waist, releasing the button, unzipping and sliding down jeans and boxers in one movement. Using my foot to drag them down from his knees and, after he'd freed his feet one by one, I kicked them away with my toe. He was mine now. Naked and restrained. To do with as I wanted.

I broke the seal of our lips and kissed his chest and shoulder as I slipped around behind him, pressing my pushed up and precariously constrained breasts against his back, feeling the globes squash into his firm flesh and sliding them up and down as I whispered sweet nothings into his ear.

Reaching around, I knew exactly where to find it and his gasp, as my hand grasped the rigid pole of his longing, echoed mine at the size of it. His increased excitement at the surprise of his unaccustomed submissive position was reflected in the exponential expansion of his tool. And I intended to play a merry tune upon it starting with something that I believe is called 'The Rabbit' So I shaped my fingers as if I were making a bunny's shadow and slid them confidently up and down his rigid wood.

Wanking him from behind gave him the equivalent sensation to that which he experiences when he masturbates, especially when I changed the handgrip slightly so that my third finger was underneath his shaft, just the way he does it and I could feel the shivers of potential release starting to run through him. Taking him close to the goal and then drawing him back again so I could pleasure him some more. Pushing myself ever more firmly against his back to gain the maximum purchase on his member, again and again, I let him climb upwards; only to stop before he reached the summit until he was breathless with wanting me, struggling against the cuffs that held him.

I whispered softly into his ear to reassure him and slid around to kiss him again. Wrapping my arms around his neck and telling him how I was going to be his cocksucker. How much more excited my mouth was going to make him and, as I kissed my way down his body until my knees touched the ground, he laughed as I looked up earnestly at him, reversing the roles suddenly and entreating him to let me be the 'Milky Princess' by coming on my upturned visage.

Surveying the vista before me with a sense of wonder for, no matter how many times I've seen this piece of equipment, I still can't help but revel in its glorious beauty... and delight in my joy at the prospect of opening up every part of myself before it.

Latching on to the job in hand and applying the tip of my tongue to the exposed head as my fingers slid the foreskin backwards. Increasing the pressure and encircling him with my lips, salivating and drooling for lubrication and watching it dribble down the shaft. Loosening my grip a fraction to allow its passage beneath my palm and then utilising the welcome slippery enhancement to accentuate its passage back and forth.

Raking my other hand over my breasts, flicking at the pert nipples poking furiously through the lace of my bra and down over the soft firm flesh of my belly, I slid my fingers inside the little panties and soaked them in my liquid lust. Knowing that he was not going to be allowed to fuck me first was making me so excited. The whole idea of being dominant, whilst still being submissive, dissolving me into a puddle of wet confusion which I slicked onto his erect member with my willing fingers.

One hand on his balls, hardening beneath my touch as his moans erupted over my head, the other on the hilt of the column that stretched solid above it, drenched with my spit and gleaming in the reflected lamplight. Swooping my mouth downwards and opening my throat to capture its full extent until I could feel it threatening to activate the gag reflex. Withdrawing just a fraction and then trying to go just that little bit further downwards. Pulling back and then letting him thrust into my willing orifice, controlling his trajectory with my hand, just permitting him to slide in and out over and over. Using my mouth as his hole, jerking his hips and fellating himself with it as my fingers tickled and scratched at his balls.

And then, withholding the aperture as he tried to push back in. Gripping him between both palms and stopping his forward momentum, only to replace it with 'The Firestarter'. Rubbing his slippery dick between my two hands like a boyscout with an overlarge twig and smiling at the noises emanating from above my head as his knees started to buckle with the intensity of the pleasure.

Hanging helplessly from the cuffs as I opened wide and took him back inside the warm wetness, sucking at the tip as I wanked him between my thumb and middle finger. Drawing on the end as my rhythm increased to the point of no return and then slowing it all down again until he was weak and pleading to penetrate me. But I had to remain firm. This was my game! So I reapplied the pressure until my hand on his cock became a blur of moving flesh before my eyes. My mouth ravishing the tip of that proud head until his groans from overhead gave the warning.

'On my face, on my face, on my face...' I demanded as, with a mighty effort, he held on long enough to pull himself away and give some directional control to the effusive gush of the preceding wank-free week. Closing my eyes and presenting my face, I felt it spurting onto my eyelids, my nose, my cheeks; dripping downwards to my mouth, where my tongue lapped it up and hungrily consumed it.

The best cakes always have a sweet, sticky topping and I was no exception.

Thursday, 8 November 2007

Dressing for Breast

I find the programmes that Trinny and Susannah do quite fascinating at times.

Last night they looked at breasts. They discovered that 90% of British women are wearing the wrong bra.

Apathy is one of the major causes of this epidemic of boob abuse. As Susannah said, some women would rather measure up a washing machine than their own breasts. We all need to take action and ensure that we are looking after our busts correctly. It shouldn't be embarrassing to allow a trained fitter to apply a tape measure. We have to learn to be proud of our bosoms!

So T&S went on the warpath. They accosted ladies in the street, took them off to their pink pod and demanded that they remove their tops so that the duo could examine their underwear. It was quite vile at times. Lumps of flesh poking out from the sides, bottoms and tops of undergarments that had not a hope of being considered fitted. They must have felt so uncomfortable with their boobs in some sort of limbo that required the wearing of baggy tshirts to conceal their shapeless blobbiness. And yet some of these females had actually been properly measured up and had still come away with the wrong sized bra.

What T&S discovered was that on visiting three different stores, they each got three different measurements and when they tried to do it themselves, they still weren't quite sure what/where they were supposed to be measuring.

My own experience is that I was professionally measured as a 36B and wore that size for years until after my kids were born, when I was measured in-store again and still told I was a 36B. Some time later, I started to become aware of pains from some lumps under my arm at certain times of the month. I was referred to a specialist, who did all the necessary examinations and eliminated the tumour fear before pronouncing that I had a hormonal malady which would be considerably eased, if not completely cured, by taking evening primrose or starflower oil , which are rich sources of Gamma Linolenic Acid. This is a herbal remedy that is widely reported to help with menstual problems and inflammations - and he was right. Within a couple of months, the discomfort was under control and I could drop the dose and only needed to take a small amount in the second half of every month.

However, as I got dressed to leave, he did advise me that I should also go and get myself properly fitted for my bra as it wasn't supporting me correctly and was exacerbating the problem. He suggested I visit the ladies in a department store in the next town.

As instructed, I duly pitched up there the following weekend where some ancient dragon took me into her lair and laughed at my suggestion that I was a 36B. 'You're tiny across your back,' she hooted. 'Cant possibly be a 36, more like a 32. And you have big breasts, much bigger than a B cup.' She proceeded to bring in several bras and helped me into the one she preferred before instructing me to jump up and down. For the first time ever, I knew I was going to be able to start doing gym skipping because I would no longer give myself a black eye. It was a revelation. The sales assistant pronounced that in certain styles I was a 34C, but mostly a 32D.

This was another thing that T&S discovered. Even if you can get yourself sized correctly, there is such a huge variation in the cuts of the actual bras themselves that you can still end up with bits falling out from under or just waggling about loosely. For me, balcony bras are a particular problem - they fit at the sides but not at the front - except when I was pregnant and for some weeks after the termination, when I had the most wonderful pair of full bouncing whoppers that behaved quite differently from my normal boobage. Needless to say, Ruf adored them and made full use, whilst they were in situ :)

The funniest part of the programme was seeing Trinny, an obvious 32A with very little boobies, being fitted with a silicon prosthetic chest that incorporated a nice pair of 32Ds so that she could spend the day learning what it was like to try to move about/exercise/run for a bus/dress with an average size pair of bazookas. Her husband thought they were vile and she seemed very glad to get back to her regular charlies, which were nowhere near as inhibiting.

At the end, T&S's team of trained assistants from the major manufacturers had managed to fit over 870 women into properly sized bras in one day and the final shot had all of them ripping off their tshirts to reveal their new underwear, whilst throwing the discarded rejects into the air.

But it is a serious matter because having our tits in the right place affects what clothes we can wear/feel comfortable in. Large ladies whose bosoms had previously hung around their waists like overlarge pitta bread, were fitted into bras that held them up where they were supposed to be. This allowed them, for the first time in years, to wear pretty clothes that showed off their little waists and revealed hour glass figures rather than being shapeless lumps. Small women were shown how to make the most of what they've got with the aid of 'chicken fillets' and push up bras so that they could wear plunging necklines and feel proud of their busts.

On researching further, I discover that T&S have a website with a survey so you can ascertain your actual shape and learn to dress accordingly.


Skittle
Average tits
Slim waist
OK tummy
Big thighs
Chunky calves

Goblet
Broad shoulders
Big boobs
No waist
Narrow hips
Long legs

Hourglass
Big tits
Small waist
Short waist
Big hips
Generous thighs

Cornet
Broad shoulders
Small boobs
No waist
Slim hips
Long, slim legs

Cello
Big boobs
Short waist
Big hips
Big bottom
Big thighs
Slim lower legs

Apple
Average tits
Tummy bigger than tits
Quite flat bum
OK legs

Bell
Small shoulders
Small tits
Small waist
Short waist
Big thighs
Big bottom

Vase
Big tits
Gently curving longer waist
Hips equal tits
Slim thighs and legs

Brick
Broad shoulders
No waist
Average tummy
Flat bum
Chunky thighs
Chunky calves

Lollipop
Big tits
Slight waist
Slim hips
Long legs

Column
Shoulder width same as hip width
Slight waist
Longer legs

Pear
Small tits
Long waist
Flat tummy
Saddlebags

I've always thought I was an hour glass but I was wrong. I am, in fact, a vase... although there is a strong case for a lollipop.

Go take their survey http://www.trinnyandsusannah.com/survey

Next week, they're looking at the problems that men face with regard to choosing their clothes and will be showing ways to deal with big necks, big bellies, etc. Get yourself over there big boy!

Trinny and Susannah Undress - Wednesday ITV1 8pm

Wednesday, 7 November 2007

Having her cake

He had made her cry yet again. The cumulative consequences of his negative words and actions.

Sobbing in the bathroom as he lay helpless in their bed.

Returning to the bedroom, she was torn between grabbing her things to run away and the call of his warmth in that bed. Part of her just wanted to be free from the tethers that bound her to him, sweeping her from one polar extreme of emotion to the other and threatening to break her. Perching on the edge of the dilemma, as he begged her to come back under the covers to try to talk it through. She was well aware that he hated making her cry; loathed the demons of common sense that ate away at him, filling him with doubt and forcing him to enunciate with a brutal honesty that ripped her to shreds.

She felt his arms snake around her, pulling her back against him and knew that he could feel the tears on his forearms. She understood that he just wanted to hold her tightly and reassure her that everything would be alright and they could work it out.

As she turned to face him, their lips found each other, softly searching and reawakening. All the emotions that existed between them building and gathering themselves into the white hot fury of a desire that never seemed to diminish. But the tragedy was that, since the debacle of the termination, she was half-finished - because he was too scared to commit to saying what she needed to hear. She ached to feel the warmth of her man’s love upon her face and the honey of his words upon her soul.

Withholding them kept her trapped and chained within the inadequacies of her real world but the encouraging stimulation of those three little words could release the brakes inside her mind, convince her twisted psyche that this intensity was completely mutual and set her free to soar on the thermal gusts assaulting her senses.

And, finally, he realised this. Looking down at her, partially penetrated, his weight supported on his knuckles and his knees, she smiled up at him, her eyes full of passion and he had to say it. 'I do love you. I really do'. He watched her eyes fill with tears as she reached up for him and pulled his face down towards her lips. Whispering the three little words over and over again against his mouth, his cheek and then into his ear as her legs wrapped themselves around him and every muscle contracted, holding his body tightly against hers. Sliding in and out on the slick wet highway of their passion, giving and receiving until their circle was complete.

This was the reason that she could never bring herself to leave.

Monday, 5 November 2007

Having his Cake

She wasn't supposed to become a permanent fixture... but he just kept wanting her to come back.

There were so many things against them ever becoming a proper couple and he kept trying to tell her that... but at the same time he just wanted to have her in his arms, feel her fingers stroking his skin and hold her warmth against him.

Every time he tried to voice his concerns and be totally honest, he made her cry... but if she tried to leave, he asked her to stay. The thought of her departure galvanised him into declaring the words that were held back by mental self protection barriers he had erected, showing her how much she really meant to him.

He had been on his own for so long. Yes, there had been long term relationships... but he had always ensured a certain independence by the retention of his bolthole

There had certainly been incredible lovemaking with other women... but not one of those liaisons had maintained the white hot heat of its fiery passion for this length of time.

He was independent, headstrong and stubborn... but she could match those attributes with reliability, gentleness and common sense.

He was worried about the age difference with him being a few years younger than her, scared to give up the chance of ever having his own children, frustrated by the fact that she couldn't leave hers to be with him all the time... but with his current circumstances, there was no place for youngsters anyway.

When she had talked about 'our baby' and how it would be with his mother, it made him want to cry, remembering the day that had seen the worst calamity that could befall any 5-year-old. He had dealt with it the best way he could by shutting those emotions down to a minimum. Yes, he still talked about his mother... but 'our baby' had made him scratch at the half-healed scabs over the scars in the fabric of his emotional detachment to the issue and he didn't like that feeling.

And when he addressed his deepest fear that, after six years of his emotional investment, she would not leave her comfortable life for him, he was mortally afraid. Well, why should she give up all that to come and live in penury with a 'short, fat fucker' like him? He was going to end up old and alone...

... but when his lips found hers and she kissed him back. When her arms went around him, enveloping him in her warm, soft skin, her smell invading his nostrils and making a direct connection with his groin, that's when he knew that he loved her and didn't want to imagine his life without her in it.

Bruce Lee said 'Don't think, feeeel...'. If he could only stop listening to the negative demons in his head.

Sugasm #104

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 #105? 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.
Editor’s Note: I thought it was Monday all day today. By the time I realized it wasn’t the new Sugasm had been up for a few hours. I’m just leaving it. The #105 post request will go up on Tuesday like normal.

This Week’s Picks

Awkward Sex Attempts (and Other Common Experiences)

“This put a slight damper on the “sexy” feelings I was trying to work up.”


Do You Want Me To Call You A Whore?

“Who doesn’t like having their hair pulled during sex?”

Two Fer

“Neither of us heard the front door open when Jason’s roommate came home.”


Mr. Sugasm Himself

Girls and Guns


Editor’s Choice

Being a Feminist in the sex industry


More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm


See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Friday, 2 November 2007

MumRage

Originally posted on British Parent Bloggers


A friend and I were discussing MumRage recently and I think it’s one of those things that people don’t speak about because it’s considered an unnatural instinct.

MumRage is born of frustration, exhaustion and the whole feeling of being trapped. Never having any grown up conversation about world events; always feeling as if you’re drowning in the minutiae of children/pregnancy-related topics which are of no interest to proper grown ups.
I can remember at a family dinner party, my newest brother-in-law saying: ‘Can’t you talk about anything other than children?’ Excuse my language a moment but: BASTARD!!!! Talk about rubbing it in and driving it home. It made me not want to talk at all in polite society. Because, no, with two offspring under five years old, I didn’t seem to have opinions relating to anything much other than children, poo, breastmilk and vomit.

My friend spoke of wanting to hit out and I can empathise completely. Sometimes I just wanted to slam cupboard doors and throw things… and, to my shame, I did. Children’s toys and once a paring knife across the kitchen. There is still a savage mark in the fabric of the sink. Completely unpredictable outbursts of explosive irrational uncontrollable anger that sprang from nowhere on the back of a relatively minor irritation.

The advent of the online supermarket shop was a great help in alleviating one of the trigger points for me personally but you still have to be organised enough to book that slot sufficiently in advance to get your delivery when you need it! When I first had my kids, I had to make the time to get to the supermarket complete with two children, the first of whom would be removing her outerwear as fast as I was able to dress the baby in his. Sometimes something so simple seemed to evolve into such a mammoth undertaking. And that doesn’t even start to deal with having to decant the kids into the double-seated trolley and push it around, complete with all the shopping therein, followed by unloading the car and putting everything away with two scratchy and tired children.

So, what with the weekly shop, the disturbed nights because my son would not sleep for very long on his own and my seeming obsession with trying to be the perfect wife and mother, keeping on top of the housework/laundry, whilst wading through rooms that were suddenly knee-deep in wall-to-wall lego when only moments previously my efforts had left them relatively tidy, I was permanently exhausted. My Husband never seemed to be able to understand why the house wasn’t pristine when he got home in the evening or why there was a distinct absence of dinner once I’d got two children.

Juggling time and children, ferrying them to try this or that activity for fear they would miss out on the one thing that could have changed their lives forever, feeling guilty for sitting them in front of a video so I could at least get some housework/laundry done or just sit down and have a cup of tea. Looking back, I remember fondly that we did so many things together, both at home and out and about. Painting, playdoh, shops, colouring, puzzles, games, cooking, trips to various local amenities. I don’t think there was ever an entire day when they had to make their own entertainment by themselves.

Yes, I did have parents who could have helped but my mother was looking after her mother who was bedridden and over 90 years old and my father was caring for my step-mother who was in the early stages of Alzheimers so I didn’t like to call upon them too much as they were already wilting under the strain of their own caring responsibilities.

It was only when my son went to nursery school when he was almost three (my daughter was already in the Infants) and I started to get a little ME time that I started to be able to control those feelings of frustrated MumRage. Not totally, there would still be incidents where it all got the better of me and, to this day, I feel deeply ashamed for the times when I shouted or smacked bottoms, when there was definitely a better way of handling things, but I just didn’t have the patience left to find it.

MumRage is horrible and we all need to recognise its existence so that we can put in place procedures to help ourselves. We need a certain amount of ME time at least once a month. Something to look forward to that is just for us. Even if it’s only getting your hair done without a child in tow or sitting down for an hour ALONE without someone jumping all over you or shouting ‘Mum’.

And yet I wonder whether MumRage is a modern phenomenon? Did it exist in my mother’s day but they were too well mannered to express it? I’m sure my own mother didn’t attend to me and my sister 24/7 and certainly didn’t feel guilty for not having spent the greater part of the day satisfying our every whim.

In those days, we didn’t have videos and children’s entertainment was PlaySchool at 11am, Listen with Mother at 1.45 on the radio and a short period of kids TV between 4.30 and 5.45, culminating in The Magic Roundabout or Hector’s House. The rest of the time we had to provide our own entertainment, helping Mum with the chores or playing by ourselves or with a sibling; we certainly read more books. There wasn’t a social network of coffee mornings and mother’s groups the way there is today. Maybe because there were less distractions, the children were less demanding in their desire for entertainment as provided by Mum so she had more time to get the jobs done. But I also think that there was less laundry. People wore clothes more often because it wasn’t just a case of sticking it in the washing machine, most laundry was done by hand… on a Monday. By seemingly making our lives easier, the mechanical improvements have also made them harder because we place greater demands upon ourselves, set higher standards of cleanliness and housewifery.

We have built a culture of baby first and foremost to a degree where they learn to wait for nothing, their needs are satisfied immediately and they are not encouraged to use their imagination to pass the time. We have allowed ourselves to become slaves to them and to our own pernicious fear that if we do not fulfil their every desire, we will somehow be shortchanging them. Add this factor to the demands of being a domestic goddess and it allows us no time to be anything other than Mum.

And sometimes that is an overwhelming burden.

Thursday, 1 November 2007

Ruf Encounters - Reminiscing for Our 2nd Anniversary

A few days after what, for me, had been the cataclysmic revelation of the farewell kiss, he suddenly appeared on Windows Messenger asking to be allowed to contact me. So, obviously, I accepted. There was no mention of our goodbye, just general chat about the event.

Over the next few weeks, we had several fun conversations where we found out more about each other. He was in the final stages of his PhD and had finished a serious relationship six months earlier. I hinted at my unhappiness in my marriage. There was flirting and the sharing of confidences but, although we had several very long conversations, mostly he seemed to be rushing off because he needed to get his work finished.

After a few weeks of this, his time at Uni was finished and, as he had no internet access at home, our method of communication was gone. To be honest I was left with the impression that he wasn't particularly interested.

A couple of months later, he was organising an event in his home town. It was a big two-day thing with a fun evening for the participants planned for the Saturday night. Even if I hadn't had designs on his person, it was a must-do seminar because so many other friends would be attending. J (my best mate) and I were going up on the Friday and spending the whole weekend at a hotel. Sadly, a week or so before the event, something happened which turned it into a one-day session only. J and I decided that we would go up on the Saturday afternoon and stay that night so that we were fresh for the early start on Sunday morning.

Since I knew Ruf ran a class on Saturday, I found his mobile number on his website and texted him to ask about class times to see if we could get there in time to train. Unfortunately, the timings didn't coincide so it was impossible but Ruf texted me to say that he would take us out for dinner on the Saturday night so that we didn't feel as if we had been abandoned in the big City. After some discussion, it was decided that we would go to his favourite vegan restaurant after the football.

On the day itself, he called me at half-time at the football to check on our progress up the motorways. Most peculiar, because I knew how important his footie was and stopping to make phone calls in the interval would not have been normal behaviour. I felt quite honoured but I didn't know whether I was reading more into it than was there.

The meal itself was fun. The food was a little strange to us carnivores - vegan sausages and a vegan Thai curry for J - but very pleasant. Then we went back to our hotel's bar for drinks. I was wearing a low cut v-necked top with a push up bra and I was hoping he would notice my cleavage. He seemed to be doing anything he could not to be caught looking in that area. We talked and talked; things just seemed to be clicking between us. J was very quiet. She knew I liked this guy and she was doing a very good impression of a gooseberry :)

The seminar went very well and a group of us went out for curry afterwards before making our separate return journeys. On the way home, we heard on the radio that there had been some rioting in a part of the City and some big fires. I had had all sorts of texts on my phone enquiring after my safety as it had made the BBC News.

Later, I sent him a text thanking him for looking after us with a throw away comment to the effect of 'we had been having fun whilst ******* burned'.

He responded with '******* is where I lost my virginity. But I'm not sure you needed to know that'.

Naturally I responded, asking for further details with regard to age, performance, etc., which he gave with the assurance that, of course, he was very good :)

And so it began...


We conversed smuttily by text from time to time over the next ten days, but it was the day of the Hallowe'en Party that things really began to kick off.

I sent him pics of my Black Widow Spider outfit - a leather basque and trousers with lacy accoutrements. He seemed to enjoy them and requested further updates. Later, at the party, there was a lot of high spirits and spanking. Someone gave me their whip and I was in my element. More photos for him to peruse.

Eventually, back at home at 2am, very definitely the worse for wear from over-indulgence in brandy, I texted him that I really needed someone with stamina and experience who could take control and play me. He replied by assuring me that he could find us some fun games to play that would involve both those qualities which he possessed in buckets. But it was my request that he make me 'sing' which really got to him. I was all dressed up for fun but had no one to share it with. He understood what I meant completely and his reply that my words had made him hard brought the realisation that there was 'something' to be pursued.

The following morning, he was texting to ask after my hangover - I'd had worse! And the excitement of his continued interest made me quite forget my fuzzy head, despite the fact that it was Monday and so I'd had to be up early to get the kids to school. He admitted that my directness had made him blush but that he had loved the whole Carry On sauciness of my banter.

I proceeded to ask for an expanded clarification of his declared stamina and experience. It became like a job interview and we treated his application for my position's vacancy accordingly, discussing his previous employers - there were about 30 of them and, no, he couldn't remember all their names. But he did hasten to stress the numbers showed that he had researched extensively, providing him with a broad base of transferrable skills. He was, after all, 38 years old and had had a very drunken and wayward youth, but he insisted that the best sex is when you put the effort in and get to practice with one person. I think he quite liked that I could only really claim to have had sex with two people and those separately, so there was no history of rampant threesomes to confide.

As it was a Monday I was busily engaged in household chores and didn't hear my mobile when he tried to ring me that afternoon; there was no answer when I tried to return the call. It was Hallowe'en and there were lots of distractions for the rest of the evening with the road's children in various stages of fancy dress to be provided with treats so I thought nothing more of it.

But the next day saw the first phone exchange of the many that would follow. It was 1st November and I was driving back from a private lesson given by a very attractive young man who had been helping me with my martial arts training.


When the phone rang, I was arriving in Sainsburys' car park where I was supposed to be doing some shopping prior to picking the kids up from school, but we just got onto the subject of sex and it went from there with no time to go round the supermarket. We discussed my problems with Rabbits and their tendency to discombobulate, my infidelity when I had kissed Bear, as well as his love of sucking come - both female and his own - and some of his previous liaisons. None of this in a flirty or salacious way, just the facts as they pertained to us. It was the day we both really acknowledged that 'something' was happening.

We talked about those few months of semi-flirtation online. He told me that he had been interested but reserved at first because he wasn't sure what I wanted. He kept thinking that I was flirting with him but he knew I was married so he thought that's all it was. He'd enjoyed the attention of the kiss but he just put it down to me being a friendly Essex girl and nothing more... because he knew I was married. He also revealed that, at that time, he had been at the tail end of a cyber relationship that had crossed over into reality for a while but had finished a week or so before the seminar.

And so the days of drudgery passed, punctuated by the excitement of my interaction with a man who was 200 miles away. To my delight, he would ring me up unexpectedly - when I was out shopping or doing housework. I cannot begin to describe how much I loved his calls, his texts, his attentions.

He commented several times upon the differences in our lives and lifestyles. He called me Lady Chatterley and said that he was my bit of rough. Of course in textspeak that translated to Ruf and so his nickname was born.

He started to send me dirtier messages about what he would like to do to me, the first formulations of a fantasy he was concocting and telling me how horny he found my replies informing him of my masturbatory needs as a result of his writing. He got me worked up into such a state, all day, every day for a couple of weeks, culminating in me texting him:

Im so wet n all i want 2 do is sit on ur cock x

'Something' had just became more pressing and filthy texts or calls whilst I was shopping were no longer going to be enough to satisfy our needs...

Sugasm #103

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 #104? 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

Urgent

“Feel the electricity from my fingers as I peel the damp cotton of your panties away from your sex, as I ease them to one side.”
The Man From Del Monte Says…Yes, Yes, Oh God! YESSS!

“She let her lips and tongue explore me all over.”
Traveling the road, Sharing a load, Side by side

“I guess this is not very sexy, my ranting about politics while playing with your cock.”


Mr. Sugasm Himself

The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book
Editor’s Choice

Dinner Date: Part 1


More Sugasm

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See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.