Thursday, 27 December 2007

Cause and Effect

Sugasm #112 Editors Choice

I love the way that happens.

Half-conscious in the soft glow of the morning light with the remnant of a pleasant dream.

Experiencing the pervasive hot surge deep inside me; the pulse of energy as the ephemeral essence of the thought translates itself from my brain to transmit a shock of electricity that centres in the most sensitive part of the flesh between my legs.

Kick-starting a shivering chain reaction of activity coursing through me as my nipples stand to attention and the blood engorges the soft folds, until my entire being is focussed in that one place.

Overwhelming me with the uncontrollable desire to touch that spot. To tease out the pleasure that is teetering on the edge.

But how much better if a warm hand is drawn by the heat and a much-loved voice whispers in my ear 'You're wet baba'

Wet? Of course I'm wet.

From the slow realisation that I'm in your bed as the receptors in my body respond to the smell of your pheromones, followed by the touch of your skin.

All the little alarm bells are going off in the relevant areas.

Tiny excited cells rushing around making ready.

Sirens and hooters blaring the warning: 'Incoming, Incoming!'

And the lubricators prepare the ground for your imminent arrival...

Sugasm #111

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 #112? 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

Fighting The Dominatrix Stereotype “She wanted a man for a boyfriend, not a doormat.”

From afar “Say my name, over and over.”

Steely Dan* “My body is flexed, and held in place, and the onslaught is relentless.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Pic(k) of the Day

Editor’s Choice A Brief History of (My) Fucking

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Thursday, 20 December 2007

Ode to Ruf

I love the way your smiles depress the dimple in your cheek
The way you kiss me roughly leaves me trembling and weak
I love the way your stubble prickles rough against my chin
And how your fingers softly stroke their way across my skin

I love the way you wake me with an early morning gift
I could never disappoint you by responding with short shrift
I love to snuggle backwards, feel the strength of your desire
Your body pressing closer til my nipples are on fire

I love the way Soduko makes your forehead crease and frown
The way you hold me tightly when my hormones make me drown
I love it when I lick your cock and listen to you moan
And suck at the last dribbles til your sighs become a groan

I love the way you pull me close when sleeping in our bed
The way you kiss me softly on my neck or on my head
I love the way we both ensure we're wrapped up warm and tight
Unless we're naked wrestling - which will end up in a fight

I love the way you mock me, saying 'class' don't rhyme with 'farce'
I'm surprised how much I loved it when you took me up the arse
I love it when you say my tits and bum are mighty fine
But most of all I love it cos I know that you're all mine

Merry Christmas Ruf
With lots of love x

Wednesday, 19 December 2007

Sugasm #110

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 #111? 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

Sex Worker Solidarity: Audacia Ray “Visibility on our own terms and the ability to uses our voices (and other mediums of expression) are key to the progress of sex worker’s rights.”

So Many Men, So Few Sluts “Everyone wants to avoid generalizations about men and women, yet they’re too powerful to ignore.”

This Time “She had That Look, and despite my earlier fatigue, I knew what was coming.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Hombre Magazine’s Left Handed Ads

Editor’s Choice Love in an Elevator

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

Saturday, 15 December 2007

In-Car Entertainment - EastEnders vs Cake


A television programme on C4 recently revived some wonderful memories of my first sex with Ruf outside of his bedroom.

In 1994, the actress Gillian Taylforth (otherwise known as the sainted Kathy Beale from the soap opera EastEnders) sued The Sun for libel. The newspaper had claimed she performed oral sex on her fiancĂ© in a car parked on a sliproad to the A1 near London. When a police officer appeared at the car window, Ms Taylforth had explained that there was nothing untoward happening and she was merely providing her fiancĂ© with “abdominal relief” for an acute attack of pancreatitis.

During the libel trial, the entire court moved out to the car park to watch reconstructions of the alleged sexual act in the front of a Range Rover - once with the central characters showing the impossibility of such an action and then one with two members of the press corps, proving that, if you remove the seatbelt, you provide the headroom - so to speak. The programme I watched seemed to particularly enjoy this part of the proceedings, using looky-likeys for the actors. They also focussed on the rather enthusiastic press corps reconstruction.

In her testimony to the Court, Miss Taylforth presented herself as a sexually reserved character. But, whilst the trial was in progress, a film was sent to the newspaper’s advocate showing her at a party simulating masturbation with a wine bottle and using a sausage as a prop whilst boasting “I give very good head.” The film was shown as evidence midway through the trial and she lost her case.

Over a decade later in a rather less suburban setting, I pulled my Range Rover into a layby just off a major road in deepest Essex. We were supposed to be going to train and then to a friend's holiday flat but I had decided upon a small detour first.

However, when I had planned the whole event, I had not taken into account the fact that the previous weekend, the clocks would be put forward by one hour, thereby bringing full daylight into the equation. I had driven past this layby several times a week in the Winter. It was about 20 feet away from the main carriageway and, in darkness, would have provided perfect cover... but was just a little exposed for my liking in the actuality.

Ruf, of course, was having none of my reticence. It was very early in our liaison - probably only about the third or fourth time we had met with a view to getting physical - and we had not seen each other for several weeks. I had picked him up from the station in brilliant sunshine.

It had been a gloriously warm Spring day. Love and sex were in the air and, almost from the moment I kissed him on the cheek, I could see the protuberance in his jeans as he sat next to me in the passenger seat. To be honest, I was not any less excited at his presence, but the concern of the daylight factor was a slight dampener on proceedings.

I pulled over, engaged the handbrake and switched off the engine, supremely conscious of the roar of the traffic as it thundered past my right shoulder only a few yards away.

Whilst I was still detained by my seatbelt, he leaned over and kissed me and I was aware of the anxieties falling away, even as the car windows began to steam up.

Pushing him backwards, I reached forward and undid his jeans, slipped the object of my desire out of his boxers and, without undoing the restraint of my seatbelt, reached over the central console and licked him. Sensing my restriction, he pressed the little red button and released me. I could feel the fabric slowly easing its way back into its unused position, freeing my arms and my torso to move as they wished.

Keeping my head below the level of the windows to avoid detection by the outside world, licking and sucking and feasting on him as he lifted up my vest top and played with my pointed nipples. I became aware of the dampness in the air: the heat of our bodies, the wetness of our excited breath moistening the atmosphere, obscuring the windscreen, until it must have been obvious to any passing driver what was occurring within. I opened the passenger window and this started to alleviate the problem and lessen what to me seemed like the equivalent of a huge red arrow pointing at my car, advertising 'Oral Sex Happening Here!'

By this time, it was at least starting to get dark. The sky was streaked with the beautiful pinks and golds of a spring sunset, slowly darkening to the soft glow of dusk and the cover we desired. Climbing across the central console onto his lap as he reclined the passenger seat and lifting his tshirt to stroke the hairy chest underneath. Sitting proud and as tall as a small woman can whilst he admired the view. The approaching cars were switching on their headlamps which lit my half-naked body and then turned it red as their rearlights disappeared into the distance.

I could feel him pulling down my elasticated training bottoms, caressing the soft white globes of my fabulous arse as he reached up and captured my mouth, dismissing the last of my resistance. The fear, the excitement, the desire, the lust, the joy at seeing him again after such a long time. It was all jumbled up in one big explosion of emotion and I no longer cared about policemen or motorists, there was only one place that this could end but I couldn't ride him properly at that angle. I couldn't get the proper purchase.

Twisting myself around to face away from him, I slid my feet down the sides of his thighs and my sopping pussy backwards, which is when he shoved his thumb up my arse and penetrated me with two fingers. Jerking with delighted surprise, I came almost immediately, sticky and wet around his digits, riding his jabbing hand for another until he inserted his rigid member into the excited mess. Forcing me to place my hands on the dashboard to contain my forward motion, I introduced myself to a sort of reverse cowgirl, pressing onto him as he drove upwards. His hands were on my breasts, pulling me backwards into him as he thrust forwards, the rhythm gaining pace, faster and faster. And that's when it started. The shrill scream of my fulfilment, muffled at first and then increasing in volume until it was echoing around the enclosed cubicle of the car. My forehead beating a tattoo against the misted windshield with every thrust - bang bang bang interspersing the continuous yell of an orgasm that threatened never to end... until he pumped his muck inside me, shivering and shaking as he held onto me.

Did we go and train? Well, what do you think?

We went straight to the loaned flat. We had far better things to do...

Thursday, 13 December 2007

A Difficult Conversation

In the weeks leading up to the day when The Catalyst finished our relationship, I was falling to pieces and anorexically in a very bad way, hardly eating anything. My subconscious was reminding me that I was living in cloud cuckoo land. A woman in her forties, no matter how much of a MILF he seemed to find her, had so little to offer a young married man in terms of anything really. I couldn't possibly compete for long with a gorgeous blonde half my age and he would definitely be dumping me and returning to her imminently.

Three years ago today, on the evening of the day it had all ended with The Catalyst, I drank brandy. I needed it to numb the pain and give me courage. I had decided it was time to have A Difficult Conversation with my Husband. I had to try, once and for all, to explain to him how miserable I was with the current state of affairs. Our marriage was unravelling before our very eyes and I had to try, one final time, to talk to him about it. And this time, there could be no tears - not that there were any left as I had been sobbing all day over my loss.

Despite everything, he is not a bad Husband. He works hard to provide a lovely home and comfortable existence for us. I believe that a lot of women would give their eye teeth to have the calm, stoic man that he appears. In fact one of our friends once said she wished she was married to him. Her husband was out on the town 'on business' at least twice a week and their relationship was a series of volatile explosions and passionate reunions. My husband told her that he was sure she would be bored of him within weeks.

If we could only sort out the affection and the children issues, we might stand a chance. I didn't hate him. I don't feel that emotion even now. I probably never will. All I have ever wanted is to love and cherish my Husband as I vowed to God that I would do and to feel loved and cherished in return. I am sure that he did love me in his way but I am clearly 'High Maintenance' and it was not enough. His attitude over the children just exacerbated everything. He wanted all the good bits without any of the tough love and forced me into the disciplinary role which just wasn't fair.

Writing these things down is incredibly painful. I feel immensely disloyal to everything that I have held dear and tried to keep together all these years. But I have learned that if I don't say the words and then try to let go of them, they just fester and grow, putrefying inside my mind. So now it is up to me to evict them before they can do any more damage.

My Husband came in late. He had been to the office Xmas party. Not exceptionally good timing on my part, but this just had to be done and done whilst I was still brave enough and desperate enough to be capable of doing it. I had to act before I sank back into the miasma of depression which would allow the anorexia to take over.

I told him I needed to talk and he sat down at the other end of the sofa. At least he was on the same sofa. Normally, on the rare occasions that we watched anything on the television together, I would be sat on one and he would come in and sit on the other.

So with at least one cushion space separating us, I told him how unhappy I was. How I hated the way that our relationship was deteriorating. How I wasn't sure if I loved him any more because he was so cold towards me and that I was terrified that I was going to follow in the footsteps of my own mother and bolt into the arms of the first man who showed me any affection.

I explained that I was fed up with having the same argument every few years with me trying to explain tearfully why I was unhappy and him saying he couldn't help it, he couldn't change and I would just have to deal with it.

I tried very hard to articulate my feelings about both the state of our marriage and our parenting skills without appearing to apportion blame to either party, just to point out that neither were particularly successful at that time.

He thought for a moment in his considered way and he replied that he wasn't sure he loved me any more either. He said it was very difficult to love someone who was never there (I trained three evenings a week and one weekend a month... partly trying to escape from him, but also conquering my own demons). However, he said, "whatever happens, we have to stay together for the children".

Not 'I love you/I care about you and I want to make this work' or even 'I hear what you are saying and we will try to solve this together in the future'. Never had I felt more strongly that we were two people pulling in different directions.

And that, basically, was it. To give him some credit, he took the next day off and took me Xmas shopping and made me food, which I tried very hard to eat. He did actually hug me too. Once, maybe twice. And allowed me to cuddle him the following morning as he went off to work.

That weekend, we went to a family party and he told me I looked nice, if a little thin and, of course, that night he put his arms around me in bed and initiated sex. Afterwards, I lay there in the darkness with tears rolling down my cheeks. I was no longer allowed to even pretend that I was with The Catalyst. This was how my sexlife was going to be from now on - cold, sterile and empty. The gratification of his need... but no longer of mine. It wasn't that he did anything wrong or that his technique was lacking. But, for me, without passion, there can be no satisfaction.

I realise now that it was the last time I would let him possess me physically.

As usual, within days, everything reverted to normal and we were back to the same old same old again. I was part of the white noise of his life once more. Virtually unnoticed. Translated, in my eyes, as unworthy of attention.

Except that a week later, I had my drunken encounter with Bear.

In a moment, everything had changed.

Tuesday, 11 December 2007

A Marriage Unravelling

Before we got married and, therefore, long before we had children of our own, my Husband and I would discuss our feelings about their upbringing. I thought we had agreed on a strategy. I was very wrong.

Whenever I hear people say 'We're going through a bit of a rough patch, so we're going to have a baby...' I look at them in horror. Our already rocky relationship was pretty much torn apart by the advent of our children. Not to say that it was their fault in any way whatsoever. But raising them and the quandaries with which we were faced because of the differences in our views about the best way to bring them up exposed the cracks in the foundations of our relationship as surely as any of the other challenges of married life.

After the arrival of our second child, my Husband and I really started to grow apart. We had been together for fourteen fairly uneventful years but it turned out that we had completely different views about the upbringing of our children. I firmly believe in giving them boundaries but reasonable ones, which will encourage their confidence and independence without pushing them too far too fast or holding them back unnecessarily. I also believe in discipline and that it should be delivered firmly and instantaneously so that there is no confusion over what infringement has occurred and what the punishment is for.

My Husband's father was incredibly strict with his children when they were young and kept them confined in a technical backwater without a telephone, a television or a car for many years after their peers had such things. I believe this is why my Husband is the archetypal gadgetman but also what made him want to be 'friends' with his own children.

In addition, he has a habit of letting people do things they shouldn't - even to his own detriment - because it is easier for him to go with the flow than to say no. He has to argue the toss all day at work and so, at home, he likes a quiet life.

Now, this would be all well and good if we could find a way to work together but, sadly, my Husband is also not a believer in the 'United Front of Parents until such time as they can discuss a problem sensibly together'. If he disagrees with something I have said or done in relation to the children, he will say so immediately, in front of them. He also doesn't believe in backing the other parent up even if he does agree with them. His view is that it is too intimidating for a child to have two parents shouting. So, if one of our offspring spoke rudely to me, even in his hearing, he would not say 'Don't speak to your mother like that!' It would be down to me to deal with that issue - as well as the argument in contention.

Needless to say, my children are not stupid and the upshot is that they both know that they can run to Daddy to get the go-ahead that Mummy will not give but also that there is every chance that Daddy will not support Mummy if she institutes a grounding or other punishment and if she is not there to enforce it, they will be able to subvert things because Daddy is too soft/lazy/stupid to carry it through.

I have tried very hard through all this not to criticise my Husband in front of his children. I think it is poor form and directly contradicts the United Front of Parents. Sadly, he doesn't agree with this ethos either and so I have been the butt of his humour and mockery ad nauseum.

Eventually, sick to the back teeth of always being the bad guy, I explained to both my children that it might seem as if I was deliberately trying to thwart their attempts to have a good time but, in fact, every decision I made was to try to do the best thing for them, to keep them safe and still having fun, whereas their father would do what was best/easiest for him whether it put them in danger or not. I still feel guilty about this now but I felt it needed to be said.

Coupled with this was the fact that my son did not sleep through the night until he was five years old... unless I was in bed with him. I tried all those 'put him in his cot and let him cry for a few minutes, reassure him but don't pick him up' things. After he had been crying for an hour, my Husband would storm past me, tearful and half-asleep outside his door, and pick him up, undoing anything I had managed to achieve in those painful 60 minutes. It was not until my Husband had to go into hospital for a week that I managed to make my lovely boy understand that he had to stay in his bed and go to sleep on his own. It was hard but we at least got him to sleep for several hours on his own before coming in to our bed.

Sometimes it seemed as if my Husband would get out of the bed, only for my son to get in. On occasions, I would be sandwiched between the two of them. There was always someone wedging me into the furthest corner of our kingsize bed, trying to grope me but no one ever seemed to want to tell me that they loved me or that I looked nice.

Every couple of years, it would all get too much and I would explode in pain and a 'straw that broke the camel's back' pointless rage. I would explain to my Husband how much I needed to feel loved. How much I wanted him to hold me and reassure me that we could get through this. But it seemed that every attempt at affection on his part took place within the confines of the marital bed and became some kind of definitive precursor to sex.

I'm a woman. I need to feel loved and desired before I can enjoy sex. Looking back I recognise that he was trying to feel cherished too but for him that could only be achieved through sex. For a few days after one of our 'conversations', he might try to be more demonstrative around the house. All I needed was an unasked-for peck on the cheek when he came in from work or his arms around me spontaneously as I did the washing up. It wasn't rocket science but it appeared to be impossible. My anorexia peaked and troughed throughout this time but he never said anything, not even when the weight had fallen off me so that I was almost skeletal. He just never made the connection, or if he did, had no idea how to deal with it, despite my repeated requests for physical and verbal affection.

Again, in retrospect, I can see that his way of showing that he cared was by cooking and trying to feed me. Anyone with half a brain should be able to see that that is probably going to be a bit of a double-edged sword when the receiver has an eating disorder but that fact just seemed to elude him.

I think the crunch came for me when we went out for dinner with some friends. It was hard for us to get babysitters. This is partly my fault because I wouldn't leave my kids with the local 15-year olds, mainly because my son was so difficult about going to bed without me. I was really only happy for my parents to do it but, around this time, my stepmother developed Alzheimers so it wasn't fair to ask my dad to come over or to have them there very often and my mum was looking after her own elderly mother who needed constant care. So we probably went out as a couple once or twice a year. On this day, I made an effort, as I usually did if we were actually going out, although I lived in big tshirts and leggings the rest of the time. On our arrival, one of our friends kissed my cheek and told me I looked lovely. I felt as if I was positively glowing at his approbation. If I asked my Husband for a view on my outfit or appearance, his reply would be: 'You look fine'. He always said that.

You have to remember that we had been together for nearly 25 confidence-eroding years, the drip, drip, drip of his sarcasm sapping away at my self-esteem, and that this emotional void had been in existence for over ten years before I met The Catalyst.

Suddenly, a gorgeous young man found me attractive. A man with a beautiful wife who was half my age was ignoring her to pay me compliments. I was like a bee round a honey pot, I just couldn't get enough of all these wonderful endorphins that were flooding through me.

Of course, it couldn't last...

Sugasm #109

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 #110? 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

Body Image In Art, Porn & Media“Imposing it upon myself, or accepting that someone else has the right to impose it upon me, is something I can refuse to do.”

The Importance of Getting Tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections“I am taking care of myself. I wish they would do the same.”

When Natural Doesn’t Feel Natural at All“I’d kept mine neatly trimmed for so long, then cleanly shaved, that I couldn’t remember what I look like in full and natural form.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Pic(k) of the Day

Editor’s Choice Darkroom Fantasy

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Sunday, 9 December 2007

Historical Sex

I have been watching The Tudors, a rollicking historical adventure series on Fridays 9pm on BBC2. I am a huge fan of that period of history and my personal heroine has always been Anne Boleyn, a much maligned woman who single-handedly caused the English Reformation and gave us the monarch as Head of the Church, instead of the Pope.

The historical inaccuracies within The Tudors can be intensely irritating for a purist like myself but I can understand the reasoning behind some of the errors. The most glaring one is the combination of Henry VIII's two sisters, Margaret and Mary into just one - Margaret, who the programme makers fictitiously married off to the aging King of Portugal because they had already had Henry meeting Francis of France in the splendid spectacle of the Field of the Cloth of Gold... thus, ruining the true timeline.

In reality, his elder sister, Margaret, was married when she was 13 to the King of Scotland, who was about 30. It was a diplomatic alliance to bring peace with the Old Enemy north of the border. After over ten years of marriage in which Margaret conceived six children (although most of them did not survive beyond infancy), King James promptly tried to invade his brother-in-law's country, whilst Henry was himself out of the country attacking France. He was killed at the battle of Flodden Field, leaving Margaret a pregnant widow trying to navigate the treacherous waters of Scottish politics and rule in her only surviving son's name.

Henry's younger sister, Mary, was forcibly married to the aging King of France, who was 30 years her senior, despite the fact that her affections lay elsewhere. He died after only a few months of poking his lovely teenage bride. She then had to live in seclusion for another two months to ensure that she was not pregnant, all the time being courted by the new young King, the womanising Francis I, who was desperate to bed her but dare not for fear of being supplanted on the throne by his own offspring.

After the required period of mourning had expired, she eloped with her true love, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, the best friend of her brother, Henry VIII. In all the romantic novels of the time, it is said that, when she agreed to marry the King of France, she exacted from her brother the promise that when Louis died, she should be allowed to marry whomsoever she chose. Naturally, the King had forgotten this and was furious at the loss of an important bargaining tool in his international diplomacy. He banished them both from Court, although he later relented because he missed his friend and his favourite sister. It is a wonderful love story in itself and they had three children together. They were also the grandparents of the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey, who later became Queen for nine days due to the political ambitions of her father-in-law which lost both of them their heads.

The writers of The Tudors could have completely ignored Margaret and just followed Mary's story and called her Mary but, since Henry's elder daughter (the future Mary I or Bloody Mary) was also called Mary, it might have confused those less familiar with English history.

The final episode of this series (or Season Finale as you Americans insist on calling these things) starts off with Henry (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), so desperate with desire for Anne Boleyn, for whom he has now been waiting for several years, that he is wanking very convincingly into a covered pot held for him by his servant! On BBC2 at 9.01pm! What is the world coming to :)

It ends with him no nearer to his divorce after four years of legal wrangling and their desire getting the better of them in a leafy glade. Clothing is thrown off dramatically, she rides him bare-breasted as he fondles her. Then he is on top, thrusting into her passionately and you can tell that the pinnacle is drawing near when he suddenly announces 'I'm going to come', at which point she says 'You mustn't' and pushes him off her. All very cheesy - the limp, stilted dialogue has been a bit hard to take in places and I hope the writer will address that in the next series.

I must also complain about the rather strange inclusion of a homosexual relationship for the composer Thomas Tallis but I guess they needed to get all types of sex in there to appeal to everyone in the audience.

It was Rups with his piece on anti-erotica which got me thinking about my own relationship with sexual literature which directly relates to the above series.

My first experience of sex in books was 'Murder Most Royal' by Jean Plaidy. It was about Henry VIII's relationships with Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. Nothing too bawdy, just a lot of heaving breasts with faces buried in them and women getting their heads cut off because of the accusation of adultery. Jean Plaidy could do non-erotic sex very well and it certainly piqued my interest in romanticised historical bodice-ripping type sex, which I'm quite sure had/has an effect on my interactions with men even today. As an 11-year-old, I was very susceptible to the concept of holding out for the one you loved and loving until death, but also the idea of dying for love.

I avidly watched the television serial 'The Six Wives of Henry VIII' with Keith Michelle and, later, the film. There was also one of my favourite films of all time 'Anne of a Thousand Days' with Richard Burton (the best actor ever with the sexiest voice) and Genevieve Bujold, who epitomised how I imagined Anne Boleyn - her appearance, her mannerisms and her French accent. That film focussed on the passion of the love story, the dynastic implications of the need for a male heir, the machinations of court politics which destroyed their love and, finally, the jealousy that caused the King to have the woman for whom he had given up so much murdered.

We also have to remember that the child of that liaison, Elizabeth, inherited so many of their personal talents that she went on to become the greatest Queen in our history, but also experienced great personal torment when it came to the men she loved and she was never prepared to totally give herself to anyone. This phobia can only have come about from the terrible example she had witnessed - her mother's relationship with her father.

My fascination with the whole story has never waned and, although I moved on to more books about other characters in that period and also the same time in French history where things were even less repressed, I always return to it when there is a new book on the subject.

The problem with Anne Boleyn is that we know so little about her. So many of her memories were expunged in a great purge when the King married Jane Seymour. Papers, relics, portraits - all destroyed because no one wanted to admit to having had anything to do with the disgraced adulteress, the enchantress who had cuckolded the King. A few things still remained - a small number of portraits that were hidden away by the remaining members of the Boleyn family, some of the letters Henry and Anne exchanged in their courtship (which had been stolen and found their way to the Vatican), the entwined initials H and A worked into the framework of a palace ceiling or as part of a clock or in some overlooked bedhangings.

There was also a great book that I read recently by Eric Ives with new information which has shed new light on the real woman. Rather than the witch with a sixth finger and unpleasant mole on her neck who bewitched a King, we see the large number of charitable donations, the fervent believer in the New Faith, the intelligence and bravery in the face of a phalanx of enemies who had determined upon her destruction.

Philippa Gregory in her book, The Other Boleyn Girl, puts forward the theory that Anne Boleyn was actually unfaithful to the King in a desperate attempt to try to conceive a child in the face of her knowledge that he was becoming unable to get an erection (possibly due to his syphillis?). The story goes that she slept with her homosexual brother, became pregnant and miscarried of a malformed child. There is a film of this book due out shortly which should be interesting.

Reading historical romances encouraged me to start experimenting with my own writing. I first put pen to paper and realised that I had literary pretensions with the start of a novel. Yup, it was about the adventures of Anne Lea, fictional Countess of Essex who won the devotion of the married King Kevin of England and ended up having her head cut off when he fell in love with someone else. I'm blushing just thinking about the hideousness of the whole thing... but, hey, in this blog you get all my confessions so I might as well let go of that one. Fortunately, the exercise book containing this tome did not survive the cull when I threw away my childish fantasies and moved into my own flat.

When I was in my mid-teens, I was distracted away from history for a while.

I had discovered Harold Robbins and modern sex.

My friends and I used to hang around the local bookshop at lunchtime on schooldays, flipping through the novels and holding books upside down by their spines to see which pages they opened upon. These were always the juiciest bits :)

I am ashamed to say that I was in with the wrong crowd at that time and was encouraged into the world of shoplifting. I'm afraid that 'The Pirate' was the first book I ever stole.

But, what a book!!!!

I can't remember the plot exactly but I know there was lots of swearing and the use of drugs - swallowed, sniffed and poured onto external body parts - to enhance sexual stimulation. I was also introduced to the words fellatio and cunnilingus. All completely alien things to my virginal eyes... but, boy, did I want to get out there and give them a go!

To this day, I remain imbued with a deep longing to feel champagne and some sort of fizzy powder (I imagine sherbet since I'm not into cocaine) poured onto my clit just to experience what it feels like.

Anyone care to elaborate on their own literature-inspired sexual fantasy?

Friday, 7 December 2007


I often wonder when I lost it.

The intimacy I once shared with my Husband.

I know there was a time when we knew each other's bodies very well and enjoyed them frequently... in a totally vanilla way naturally. But what happened? Where and when did that mutual affinity disappear?

Was it the advent of our children and the divisions that grew over our inability to agree about the correct method of raising them? Or did it absent itself long before, when we saw so little of each other due to our busy working schedules? Was it obscured by our differing levels of expectation in terms of displays of affection? Did it become irretrievable through my resentment of his attitude towards me? Maybe we just frittered it away in tiny pieces of dislike as we grew further and further apart? Or perhaps it just imploded during one of our five-yearly outbursts of acrimony at the disintegration of our partnership.

However it happened, it is just as surely and irredeemably destroyed.

All that is left is two people who share a house, a bed and a common concern over the future of their children.

Someone asked me recently whether I thought that "toys" are natural in relationships that have true intimacy? Or are they actually a distraction from the lack of intimacy within the couple?

It certainly made me think.

Toys didn't work in my marriage. I did try once with my toothbrush in an attempt to save things but, because we had lost the intimacy, irrevocably mislaid the rapport of two people who really adore each other's bodies and minds, we had forfeited the pleasure of toys. It wasn't 'comfortable', just forced.

In my relationship with Ruf, I believe we do have true intimacy and the toys are just an extension of that. We play with toys for him and for me and they were a part of our lovemaking right from the start. The idea is to get the best possible orgasm for both of us and to see if accessories help or hinder.

We use them when we have a whole day or, even better, an entire weekend just to enjoy each other. However, if time is short, then there is no room for them. We need to express our feelings using just our bodies. It has to be skin on skin. Does that make sense?

But if we didn't have the basic foundation of a relationship where we want to pleasure each other physically and mentally, where we know each other's bodies like the backs of our own hands. From head to foot and all orifices in between, there are no secrets. If we didn't have that, combined with an amazing mental connection, I believe the toys would indeed be purely a distraction from the fundamental lack of intimacy between us. A way to try to improve the physical side of our sexlife, without attending to the emotional content.

How many couples do you know who wander from one life-changing experience to the next - marriage, children, moving from house to house. Each time looking for that missing component within their relationship, trying to achieve that sense of complete fulfilment. For some, that search will encompass the use of toys - a way to improve their sexual connection. But if you cannot achieve the optimum conjunction through skin on skin, if you don't feel desire just from the touch or the presence of that other person, then how can you expect to attain it with the aid of artificial devices?

Intimacy is an amazing gift between two like-minded souls, but if it is not nurtured, you can lose it in the blink of an eye.

Wednesday, 5 December 2007


I want you to watch me from across the room, responding to other men flirting outrageously with me.

I want you to see the lust in their eyes, notice their hands fondling my waist and my hair, totally enveloping me with their hugs and pressing their lips against my cheek.

I want you to be excited by their interest... not jealous, but gratified by the knowledge of your ownership; completely secure because, even though you cannot claim me in public, you are the one who will be taking me home tonight.

Once there, I want you to leave your marks upon me. When I am back in my other life in the cold light of day, I will admire the red contusions on my alabaster skin and glory in the memories they evoke. The ferocity of your mouth, your teeth biting on the delicate flesh of my breasts and bottom, making me dizzy as you suck at me proprietorially.

I want to sit on your face and have you devouring my innermost secrets, before slipping out from underneath and taking your possession from behind. My back against your chest as you grip my hips to control me and pull them back against you. And then, with one hand, pressing my neck forwards and up, forcing my face into the wall as you slide into me.

I want you to admire my back stretched out defenceless before you. The proud musculature of my shoulders, the definition of my slender waist as it curves softly into my glorious bottom. Your hands holding firm on my hip and neck as you pump harder and harder, relishing the thud each time my skull hits the paintwork.

I want to know that you think about those other men, imagine their envy and revel in your mastery.

I want to hear you hoarsely whispering: 'You're my fuckbitch... my thing... to do whatever I want with.'

'My fuckthing.'

'Mine!' as you ride me, screaming, into oblivion, spraying your scent between my legs as surely as if you were marking your territory.

For you are my man and I belong to you.

Tuesday, 4 December 2007

Sugasm #108

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 #109? 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

From virgin cocksucker to blowjob queen ” I love to play and tease with my hand and tongue, lightly licking, sometimes using my panties or another soft fabric to run across the shaft.”

Interlopers “Oh yes, I’ve seen it all before, I know what you’re here for.”

Old Friends “His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself The Count

Editor’s Choice Hot and Cold

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

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

Monday, 3 December 2007

The Friend

Some guys are just the bestest friends. They are there for you when the shit hits the fan, when your Husband is being difficult, when the kids are acting up, when your martial arts journey hits a dead end. Always ready in a crisis with a kind word and a motivational peptalk.

The Friend is one such man.

I first came across him on a forum where I was enthralled by his writing style - some might call it ranting, but to me it was erudite and eloquent, with an amazing wit driving the message home.

It transpired that he trained at a dojo not too far from me and, when I became dissatisfied with my teachers of that time, I pitched up to get a taste of what his instructors had to offer. We became very firm friends and, although he left the dojo to continue his martial arts journey on another path, we continued to see each other on the seminar circuit once or twice a year and exchanged catch-up emails every so often. I was incredibly pleased and flattered that he made a 300 mile roundtrip from his home to the venue where I took my black belt, just to watch me finally make the grade and then write me a wonderful valedictory speech on the forum we both frequented

Some people might have wondered at the nature of our friendship, but the one thing about him that remained constant was his enduring love for his wife which permeated every conversation. I was, therefore, very bemused and upset to receive an email from her saying that they had become estranged and could I keep an eye on him for her. It put me in a very difficult situation because it became apparent that there was trouble in paradise and all was not well with their relationship. I continued to try to reassure her, without giving away anything that he was telling me. I really did feel like piggy in the middle but I tried not to pass on anything that was revealed to me by either side and to remain impartial over any disputes.

One day she asked me if I thought there was anyone else. I assured her that at no time had he mentioned any other women and that he was focussed on improving his education and retaining his employment in difficult circumstances. It was then that it occurred to me that her suspicions might actually extend to me and this was later confirmed by my friend. Apparently she was always making comments about my presence 'in his life' in that we had similar interests and attitudes to things.

He told me that he would have loved for her to ask outright whether we had ever been intimate because it would have given him the opportunity to make this reply:

'The only time we were ever 'intimate' was when we were rolling around on the floor at a seminar in front of about 30 people. She got on top of me, dropped an elbow in and broke my rib... and I rather felt that meant that a shag was out of the question...'

I really hope they can work things out.

Sunday, 2 December 2007

Aries and Aquarius

Having My Cake and Ruf - I think this says it all really :)

Lets101 - Free Online Dating

Been spending the weekend with Ruf and watching him fight for his next grade. Lots of testosterone-fuelled rampancy... and that was just me - back tomorrow :)